


Lantern of Evil (in my pants)

by antigone_ks



Series: Lantern of Evil [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Steve Rogers, Awkward reader, Biting, Cunnilingus, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, F/M, False Identity, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I hope, Making Love, Making Out, Oral Sex, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Profanity, Short Reader, Skinny Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Smut, Steve wants to be clear that this isn't fucking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, all of the combinations of serums and Steves, background Bucky/Nat - Freeform, definitely third base, green-eyed reader, horrible misunderstandings, inappropriate use of a history degree, love in art galleries, love on bridges, love on front porches, neither of these goobers know what they're doing, not all-the-way parking but pretty close, plus size reader, shameless Letterkenny reference, will earn rating in later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 14:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19947529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antigone_ks/pseuds/antigone_ks
Summary: “You’re in a good mood today,” Natasha commented, holding the phone steady as Tony and Sam devolved into a slap fight. “Haven’t seen you smile this much since, y’know.”“This is quality entertainment,” Steve said. “You don’t get this every day.”“No you do not.” She turned the phone toward Bucky, who whistled as he sprinkled sea salt over the meat. He looked up, winked directly at her, then tossed the rest of the seasoning like a long-haired Salt Bae.“But you seemed pretty chipper when you snuck back in before the show started.”***Or, Steve gets deserumed and falls in love over art, old movies, and taxi dances.





	1. And all the greens of June/ Come blowing through the door/ They make me want to live/ Like I never have before

You settled onto the bench, bag on the floor. The museum had barely opened – a bad sign; it mean you were either blocked or stir-crazy. Or both. Both was bad. You’d had the museum on your list of things-to-do-if-you-had-time, but when you’d first come to town you’d expected that there would never _be_ time. You were getting the change of scenery and relief from responsibilities that you’d always wanted, so of course you never imagined that the same old problems would plague you.

Namely, writer’s block. Imposter Syndrome. “Every word I write is trash and I should sleep in the dumpster”-itis.

You’d gotten this amazing opportunity to take a sabbatical, move half a continent away, and just research the hell out of your magnum opus, a stroke of historical genius. Or what would be your magnum opus, if you could get the damn thing off the ground. Right now it was stuck at brevi opus.

Opus minimis.

You had _piles_ of research, and a good starting point, but you either got stuck on the writing of it or spent days on end organizing the data until the sun coming in the curtains made you feel like a Morlock crawling out of its hole.

So you’d hit the museum.

It’d actually been working pretty well for you, the last few weeks, and you’d started making it part of your routine. Rather than wait for the Bad Times to force you out of the house, you’d come down every two or three days and just . . . pick something. A painting, a sculpture, whatever caught your eye, and you’d study it until your mind felt clear. Sometimes your mind would wander far enough afield that it circled back to your work, and you’d excitedly jot down a new avenue to explore or a turn of phrase you liked. Sometimes you got nothing but a peaceful feeling. Either way, it was good for you, and the initial guilt you’d felt at not being Productive At All Times had faded.

It sort of _was_ productive, anyway. You told yourself so.

For the last couple of visits, you’d sat with Hamilton’s _Joan of Arc and the Furies_. It was Shakespeare’s Joan, about to be captured by the English and burned for heresy. It’s not . . . good . . . you think, you don’t _like_ it, but there’s something about it. It’s like two different paintings in one, dark and bright, overbearing and reticent.

There aren’t many people around yet, no kiddie camp visits today, so you’re alone in this part of the gallery. The docents are used to you by now, and don’t bother eagle-eyeing you. You lean your chin on your hand and stare hard at Joan, at her Merveilleuse gown, which, like, didn’t Hamilton know she wore _pants_? Like, famously? But anyway.

“You know,” a deep voice said, “I’ve always wondered what’s going on with the light down by that first fury. What does it symbolize?”

You look over your shoulder at the speaker, a slightly-built blond man with a sketchbook under his arm. He’d shown up a couple of times before, wandering around with more purpose than the average tourist, like he knew which pieces he liked and why. He had a delicate face and serious eyes with just _ridiculous_ lashes. You smiled uncertainly.

“Like, where even is it coming from? Under her skirt?” you ask, and he looks down at you and _whoa nelly those are very blue eyes_ and chuckles.

“Is it the lantern of justice?” he says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Probably not in Shakespeare. Maybe a lantern of evil.”

“She keeps a lantern of evil in her skirt?” He’s smiling openly at you now, and it’s a really nice smile, and that’s the only excuse you have for what comes out of your mouth next.

“Lantern of evil – in my pants!” you chirp, grinning.

His eyebrows shot up and he gave an incredulous _hah_.

“Like, like the game?” you say hurriedly. “Where you add ‘in my pants’ to a quote, or a movie title?” You can hear your voice rising nervously and fiddle with your glasses to avoid looking at him. “One ring to rule them . . . in my pants?”

He’s laughing now – probably more at you than at the joke – but it’s enough to relax you a little bit.

“I have never played that game,” he said, eyes dancing. “But I know just the person to try it with. I’ve seen you here before,” he went on, glancing back the painting. The tips of his ears went very pink.

“Yeah, this is turning into my happy place when work’s not going so well.” You look at Joan again and clear your throat. “I think I saw you, too . . . maybe Sunday?” _Not that I noticed you. I’m not a creeper. I notice nothing. I can barely see._

He nodded and shrugged. “Probably, yeah. I’ve been here a lot over the past week.”

“Work got you down, too?” you ask. He kind of purses his lips and nods. Taking a breath, you gesture to the empty half of the bench. “Want to share Joan with me? She’ll take your mind off it.”

His smiles is a slow, gentle thing, and even though you say nothing more until it’s time to leave, you feel warmer for sitting near him.

***

“Because they’ll clog up the drain.” Tony’s voice is clipped.

“They get rid of odors,” Natasha points out.

“So it _was_ you.”

“You think I drink that light roast nonsense?” She looks up as Steve enters, the light of battle in her eyes. Well, the light of annoying Tony. It’s not hard. “Weak.”

“Now you’re a coffee snob, Romanoff? You – “ Tony points a pair of tongs at Steve “ – do some reconnaissance, rally the troops, whatever it is you do, and catch this _villain_.”

Steve clucks his tongue and fails to hide a grin. “Coffee grounds again? You know, we could just get a Keurig and solve that problem easily.” He ducks as both Tony and Natasha turn on him, allied in outrage.

“Just for that,” Tony says, “you get whichever steak I overcook.”

Steve eyes the barstools at the island. He _can_ get into them now, but it involves just enough scrambling that it hurts his dignity. No one said anything the first time he did it, not even Tony, and that was somehow worse than teasing would have been. He’s not _broken_ , for God’s sake. He’s a man of temporarily reduced stature. It’ll be fixed in no time, Bruce and Tony _and_ Helen have promised, but . . .

He’d read a book once that described a gnome as a person whose ‘belligerence was compressed into a body six-inches high and, like many things when they are compressed, had an inclination to explode.’[1] Steve didn’t consider himself belligerent – although he had the urge to cross himself in penance and hope that Bucky was in a different building when he thought it – but he _did_ feel like every human emotion was currently packed into a body too small to hold it all. This body didn’t _fit_ , except that it did, and Steve honestly wasn’t sure which feeling was worse.

He leaned against the counter with – he hoped – an insouciant air and nodded at Tony. “’s long as I can gnaw through it.”

“Are you impugning my grilling skills, Rogers?”

“Wait, you’re gonna grill those?” Sam and Bucky entered the kitchen, apparently fresh off a sparring match. Sam’s skin glistened with sweat, and Bucky wasn’t much better off. Sam might not have super serum in his veins, but he wasn’t a pushover in the ring.

“How else d’you cook ‘em?” Bucky asked, wrinkling his nose at Sam.

“You sear ‘em on the stovetop in a cast-iron skillet,” Sam said, holding up one finger, “finish ‘em in the oven,” two fingers, “serve with a garlic-herb butter.” Three fingers, waved in Bucky’s face.

Natasha leaned on the counter next to Steve and pointed her phone at the argument. “Every time,” she whispered.

“Every time,” Steve answered.

“In the _oven_? Cook like a man, Sam!”

“Grill makes ‘em too dry,” Sam insisted.

“Hey!” Tony snapped his tongs at Bucky. “My meat. My rules.” He straightened his shoulders under Sam’s withering look. “On the grill, flip once a minute for the good grill marks.”

“That’s _overhandling_.” Sam’s tone suggested he was heading straight to church to light all of the candles for Tony’s soul.

“Wait – everyone, wait,” Steve broke in. Natasha quirked her lip at him, annoyed that he was ruining the show. He winked at her. “The real issue here is, aren’t you gonna season those things?”

“Yeah, where’s the salt and pepper, bud?” Bucky asked.

“Don’t start with me,” Tony warned.

“Where’s the steak spice,” Sam asked, rummaging through the cupboards. “I made you a steak spice months ago. My own blend, Tony. I _gifted_ it to you. I’m not eating one of your bland-ass steaks again.” Tony abandoned the meat in favor of bodily hauling Sam away from the cupboards, giving Bucky time to grind at least a little peppercorn on each of the steaks.

“ – my steaks alone!” “ – killing the flavor, man. _Killing_ the flavor!” “ – oversalting!” “ – can’t cook ‘em right, you leave it to someone who can!”

“You’re in a good mood today,” Natasha commented, holding the phone steady as Tony and Sam devolved into a slap fight. “Haven’t seen you smile this much since, y’know.”

“This is quality entertainment,” Steve said. “You don’t get this every day.”

“No you do not.” She turned the phone toward Bucky, who whistled as he sprinkled sea salt over the meat. He looked up, winked directly at her, then tossed the rest of the seasoning like a long-haired Salt Bae.

“But you already seemed pretty chipper when you snuck back in before the show started.”

Steve’s eyes were wide with injured innocence. “Snuck? Back in? I –“

“Can it. I don’t care – probably no one will recognize you – but if Tony finds out he’s going to turn into Chicken Little about security.”

“Tony can go lay an egg,” Steve said firmly, making Natasha snort with real laughter.

She sighed. “As hilarious as this is, I’m getting hungry. Knock it off of or I’m calling Rhodey in.”

Tony straightened, Sam’s arm still around his neck. “Betrayal, Romanoff. I feel betrayed.”

“Yeah, no calling in the brass,” Sam complained. “We can settle this on our own.”

“Better settle that meat on the grill before the others get here,” Steve said. “Want help?”

“Excuse me,” Tony said, affronted. “I can handle the meat.”

The words left Steve’s mouth before he could stop them “ – in my pants?”

Natasha dropped the phone.

[1] Terry Pratchett, _The Fifth Elephant_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> case/lang/viers – Greens of June
> 
> And all the greens of June/  
> Come blowing through the door/  
> They make me want to live/  
> Like I never have before


	2. July Flame/ Sweet summer peach/ High up in the branch/ Just out of my reach

You didn’t see him on your next visit, but told yourself you didn’t mind. It was hard to concentrate on Joan with him there, to let your mind wander. Well, no – your mind wandered, all right, but not in productive directions. It mostly wandered in the direction of his jawline and, for an extremely inappropriate several minutes, the length of his fingers.

They really were distractingly dexterous-looking.

So it’s with a sense of _oh, no_ and also _oh, yeah!_ that you catch sight of him, four days later, looking intently at Fuseli’s _The Nightmare_. It’s a treat to watch him: he’s utterly absorbed, close enough that if the docent caught him they would start clearing their throat in a very definite sort of way. His fingers twitch as if they want to start drawing right now. He tilts his head and impatiently brushes his hair out of his eyes.

So . . . you have to find something to look at, and he’s on the side of the room with the art you want to look at today. Joan’s still there, though.

You’re back on the bench, trying to unfocus your mind while you stare at the oddly-lit fury at the bottom, the one lit by the _lantern of evil in my pants dear god_ , when you hear him take a deep breath and move away from the eerie Fuseli.

You dare to glance up. “I see you abandoned Joan in her hour of need,” you say, hoping that he remembers you, that he thinks it’s funny. He does, or at least he grins.

“She’s still got that lantern of evil between her legs,” he says, and it looks like he’s about to choke on his tongue as soon as the words get out. You laugh so hard that a docent actually does come in, more curious than affronted.

“Thank god it’s not just me,” you gasp, half-sprawled on the bench, boneless with laughter. This time his ears _and_ his neck have gone red, and he huffs at you. “To say things like that.” You sit up straight and wipe your eyes. “Unless you just said that to make me feel better for the in-my-pants thing.”

“Would you believe me if I said that was my plan all along?”

“I’d pretend to,” you assure him.

He rubs the back of his neck, and when your eyes meet you start giggling again.

“Sorry. Look,” you say, sticking your hand out, “if we’re going to keep embarrassing ourselves in front of this very fine art we ought to at least know each other’s names.”

He clears his throat, eyes darting around for a second – _great, you’ve definitely scared him off with your weird, uh, asking of his name_ – then took your hand.

“Grant. Grant Stevens.”

“Good to meet you, Grant Stevens,” you say, giving him your name as well. He gestures to the bench and you scoot over, giving him plenty of room.

“So . . . do you actually spend multiple days staring at this thing?” He asks, after a few minutes of silence where you try to refocus, or unfocus, on the task of clearing your brain.

“Hm? No, I was actually over at _The Weird Sisters_ last time,” you say, waving toward the mezzotint displayed next to _The Nightmare._ “I zoned out on Joan for a few visits, but she’s not really doing it for me anymore.”

He gasps, hand to his chest like an Edwardian actress. “You accused _me_ of abandoning her!”

“I mean, _someone_ has to keep an eye on her.” Your lips quirk. “And her lantern of evil.”

“Oh, man,” he whispers, shoulders hunching with laughter. “That’s not going away anytime soon.”

You bite your lips, feeling an odd burst of pride. You were talking to a _boy_! And he _liked_ you, or at least liked your jokes. You just needed a bookbag covered with New Kids on the Block pins and you’d be straight back in middle school, instead of an actual grown, professional woman who _communicated for a living,_ for god’s sake. Of course, most of that communication was with barely-adults in uncomfortable desks, or on paper, and not in person with a distractingly handsome man who laughed at your jokes.

_Maybe that’s the problem_ , you think. _I’ve spent so much time around students, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a conversation with someone who remembers the Berlin Wall_.

“So if you’re not into Joan anymore, and I’m not into Joan, shall we . . .” Grant waves at a bench closer to _The Nightmare_.

It feels comfortable to pack up and move with him, to let him grab your bag when he gestures toward it, and sit with him gazing at the paintings. Most of your attention goes toward _The Weird Sisters_ – it’s deceptively simple but affecting, full of personality.

“Why this one?” Grant asks, then – “I’m sorry, you like to relax here.”

“No, it’s ok.” You’re silent for a minute, marshalling your thoughts. “It’s . . . the lines,” you say, feeling utterly inadequate to the task. “Like, it looks real? Except for the demon. Look at her sleeve.” You get up and point to the first witch, and Grant follows with a little furrow between his brows. “It looks gauzy. How did he even do that? Like a photograph. Even the hands are great. Everyone say hands are the hardest.” You bite your lip, feeling foolish. “Sorry, I don’t really know art stuff; I just like looking at it.”

“Hands _are_ the hardest,” Grant says, his voice serious. You glance up to see him gazing at you, a tiny smile on his face, his eyes soft. “And don’t apologize. Anyone can take a class to learn the words, but it’s a lifetime of work to figure out what you really like.”

You mouth is bone dry, and your face is heating up. _Shit, shit._ You don’t get adorably pink when you blush, your skin turns absolutely purple and people ask if you’re having heatstroke.

“So . . . you do hands? You draw hands? You draw?” _Yes, this is definitely going well, A+ me._

“I . . . yeah, I like to draw.” He looks down, scuffing his shoe on the floor. “Got out of the habit for a while, but I’ve got a little more time on my hands right now. Trying to remember how to . . . be.”

“I get that.” You do. Your life lately has been a never-ending assembly line of work and family and people needing something from you. This sabbatical wasn’t meant to take you off the assembly line, just streamline it a bit, but here in the gallery you’ve carved out a bit of breathing room that you didn’t remember losing in the first place.

You take a breath. “So what’s your opinion on Macbeth’s witches here?”

Grant smiles. “I like the hands, too.”

***

_This is going well,_ Steve thought, shoving his hands into his pockets. _Having a conversation with a woman about art. Just talkin’ to a real nice-looking dame about hands and stuff. Nothing to it._

It really is easier than it used to be, which takes him by surprise. He’s never been what anyone would describe as good at flirting – not that he’s trying to flirt, at all; under the circumstances that would be . . . weird, and a little wrong – even at his full-Cap physique, and original-flavor Steve had been _useless_ at talking to women. But he’d had more opportunity over the years, from giving and receiving mission reports, Natasha and Maria’s sisterly teasing, Wanda alternating between shyness and bravado. They’d all given him new data points, and lots of practice, and more confidence even if half of their conversations ended up with someone laughing at him at least a little bit. That last, at least, was no different than with any of the men on the team.

Or maybe it was just that he knew nothing would come of it. Not the way he was right now, almost invisible again, and even if you were inclined he _couldn’t_ be.

So standing here looking at a witch with her tongue out, talking about it to a pretty woman, actually was going better than anyone – Bucky, tbh – would have believed.

_I just thought the letters “tbh,”_ he thought, a little horrified. _They’re in my head. Who put that in my head?_ He’s inclined to blame Wanda, or that spider-kid Tony brings around sometimes. _Hey guys! Did you see that really old movie, Harry Potter? Jesus._

“I like the hands, too,” he says, and he’d kick himself if you hadn’t turned to him and just _beamed_ at him. He’s a little breathless; he can’t remember ever making a woman smile quite like that, not even as Cap. Definitely not as Steve. Or Grant.

Your cheeks are turning awfully pink, too, and while that’s not entirely new, it’s entirely gratifying.

Steve gets you to blush a few more times over the next couple of weeks; makes you laugh too – and not just when he’s pulled off some unwittingly terrible double-entendre. He learns that you share a similar sense of humor, weaned on Abbott and Costello and the Three Stooges (although yours was augmented with Eddie Izzard, something he’d stumbled upon rather later).

He finds out you’re researching with the local history society on a Stark Fellowship, which he supposes means he owes Tony for meeting you.

(Tony will never hear of this.)

He learns that you bite your lip when you’re particularly intent on a piece, and that your eyes widen when you get a spark of inspiration, and that you tap your fingers when you come in agitated about some piece of research or writing that’s not going well.

He learns that if he leaves his sketchbook on the other side of the bench, then leans behind you to grab it, your eyelashes will flutter and your cheeks darken when he presses against the generous curve of your hip.

He learns that he can spend a lot of time thinking about that.

You’re writing something, the corners of your mouth turned up. He found you in front of Runciman’s etching of Cormar fighting the son of the sea, a story Steve had first heard at his mother’s knee. He’s taking advantage of your distraction to work on a study of the way your neck curves softly into your shoulders and your back and . . . below your back. You shift, suddenly, and look up.

“What are you working on?” you ask, and it takes more self-control than Steve possesses not to snap the sketchbook shut. Your eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Just something for work,” Steve says, too loudly. “What are you – “ he’s interrupted by a squeal, then a “SHH” that’s even louder than the squeal, then the sound of forty pairs of preschool tennis shoes trooping toward you both. Steve blesses the distraction and changes tack.

“What do you say we find a place where we won’t get trampled?” he says. “It’s almost lunch time.”

“Sounds like a life-saver,” you respond, grabbing your bag before Steve can be a gentleman and carry it for you. “Do you have a favorite place around here?”

_Oh. Forget Tony; that’s a Fury-sized problem if I’m spotted._ It was one thing to haunt an art gallery in the summer when most of the visitors were shipped in from local daycare centers and art camps; it was another entirely to go to a busy restaurant at noon. Still, if he stuck close to campus . . . with the students gone it might be safe.

“Do you like barbeque?” he asks. “There’s a great place maybe a 10-minute walk from here.”

You look adorably unconvinced. “Can you get good barbeque this far north?”

“Are you impugning Yankee cooking?” Steve tries to look outraged.

“Just the barbeque.”

“Well, now you have to give me a chance to prove you wrong,” he said.

It’s busier than he expected, and Steve feels a moment of panic, but it’s lunchtime and everyone is too focused on the food to notice either of you. He leads you to an empty table near the back and pulls out your chair like his mama taught him, and studiously avoids looking down your shirt when you sit, which his mama didn’t have to teach him.

You’re studying the menu, so he takes a minute to study you. You’re wearing a little frown of concentration, worrying your lower lip between your teeth. You did that a lot, he’d noticed, when you found something particularly intriguing. It was usually a piece of art, but apparently that concentration could extend to pork-stuffed jalapeno poppers as well. Steve allowed himself one brief daydream about catching that plump lip with his own teeth, before he ruthlessly squashed it down.

_She’s not gonna look at you like that, pal, and you can’t do anything about it if she did._

Steve shakes his head clear as another couple claim the table next to you, a man in an unseasonable long-sleeve shirt and gloves and a woman with close-cropped dark hair.

“So what do you recommend?” you ask, peering at him over the top of the menu.

“I usually just get the sampler,” Steve says absently, trying to decide if he’d paint your eyes more green or more hazel. More green, he thought.

Those eyes widened. “What, the sampler with all of the meats?”

“I . . . yeah, I usually,” Steve bit his tongue and cursed silently. “I usually share it with a friend?” That was another annoying this about this situation. After a couple of weeks, he knew he couldn’t eat the amounts that a super-soldier body needed, but he really missed being able to order a variety – like three different sandwiches, or ALL OF THE MEATS – and enjoy picking them over.

“Do you want to share with me?” he asked. “You can pick the sides.”

You bite your lip again, a slow smile spreading across your face. “Absolutely I do.”

You both lean back in your chairs, staring sightlessly at the pile of food still on the table. You’d barely made a dent in it.

“I can’t breathe,” you whisper.

“I have an inhaler,” he offers.

You start laughing, and he joins in. Your smile is so warm, your eyes so bright, that it takes everything in his power not to reach across the absolute _mountain_ between you and take your hand. He crosses his arms, just to be safe.

“Well, I feel as if we’ve eaten half the annual rations of an entire regiment, but thank you. This was fun – I’d never order all of this for myself.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Every woman should have a chance to try all of the mea –“ he catches your eye and slumps down in the chair.

“You are _very_ good at that, mister.” Your giggles are edging dangerously close to snorting, which would be thematically appropriate but probably embarrassing.

“It’s not my fault!” Steve throws his hands in the air. “I can’t talk to pretty dames.” That set off another peal of laughter. God, he really liked the way you laughed, snorts and all.

“Thank you for that,” you say brightly. “Do I have a lot of moxie, too?”

Steve deepens his voice and shoves in all the Brooklyn he has. “Kid, you got more moxie than the ’41 Dodgers.”

You really do snort then, covering your mouth with one hand and flapping the other at him in a “stop it!” motion. He laughs too, full-bellied, and can he even remember the last time that happened?

The waiter doesn’t even bother to ask, just drops off several to-go boxes, and Steve won’t let you wave them off.

“Please,” he says, looking up under his eyelashes ( _hey, it works for women_ ), “you have to help me – I can’t carry all of this and still get my door open.” At that, you graciously accept one of the boxes, making noises about it taking care of all the week’s cooking. He stops you reaching for the bill when it comes, but you really do protest this time, demanding to pay half.

“A gentleman always pays,” he insists, refusing to relinquish the ticket when you reach for it. Your jaw sets stubbornly and he quirks an ingratiating smile at you.

“Of all the – look, I’ve got too much moxie to fall for that, pal. _And_ gumption.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real plucky broad. Besides, I invited you,” he reasons, and then an uncomfortable thought crosses his mind. “I mean, you don’t have to worry – I don’t expect – you know – this isn’t like a _date_ or anything.”

Your face goes blank for a second, then you smile. “Oh, of course, I know.” You look out the window with that same smile on your face, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Steve casts around for something else to say as you gather your boxes and bag, something that will keep the afternoon going, but the air around you feels different now.

“I’ll help you carry those to your car?” he offers, feeling off-kilter now. _You said something wrong again, Rogers. It just wasn’t funny this time._ But what the hell he’d said, he couldn’t fathom. He’d just wanted to set you at ease . . .

“No, but thanks. I walked this morning.” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and tilt your head. “This was fun, though.” You sound almost wistful, Steve thinks, and he’s not sure why.

“I’ll see you and Joan sometime?” he says hopefully, and you nod on your way out the door.

Steve stares after you, and nearly jumps out of his skin when hears an exasperated sigh. He turns, startled, to the strangers at the next table.

“Just can’t stick the landing, can you?” asks Natasha, narrow-eyed under the wig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laura Viers – July Flame
> 
> July Flame/  
> Sweet summer peach/  
> High up in the branch/  
> Just out of my reach


	3. You'll fall asleep / With your arm around my shoulder/ And nothing will come between us/ On the first night in August

_So that’s that, then_ , you think, as you stand around the corner from the restaurant waiting for your Uber. You had walked that morning, like you said, but you weren’t about to hike half an hour back home with all this food. And you didn’t feel like sitting inside waiting with Grant.

_That’s stupid, you know_ , you try to reason with yourself. _He clearly wants to be friends, and you can wait for a car with a friend._ Except . . . trying to continue a conversation seemed too hard right now. _Because you’re stuuuupiiiidddd_ , your traitorous brain sing-songs. _Shouldn’t have thought of it like a date in the first place, and now you’re disappointed and you’re gonna spend the rest of the day sadfaced when you should have known he wasn’t into you._

Yeah, well . . . yeah. You should have. It’d been a while since a guy you were interested in was interested back, or interested in the way you wanted. Plenty would try it at a bar, thinking they’d get an easy night with a woman they’d never have to call again, but you’d learned to spot that type a long time ago. Grant just seemed different, but maybe that’s because he really only wants to talk about art and old slang.

And anyway, you did have fun until your brain sabotaged you. You could definitely be friends with him. Just friends. Like Kate and Lila at the historical society. He’s basically Lila, but shorter and blond. _And hot_ , your idiot brain chirps.

You hate your idiot brain.

***

“She’s cute,” Natasha says. “And she’s _definitely_ into you.”

“She’s not into me,” Steve mutters, “and it’s not like that.”

Bucky smacks him on the back of the head, not pulling his punch, and Steve nearly faceplants into the coffee table. They’re back at the compound; Natasha had made Bucky ride back with him in case Steve got the urge to drive into the river to escape the exact conversation they were obviously about to have.

He had considered it.

“She is, and it oughta be,” Bucky says, ducking the half-hearted retaliatory punch Steve throws at him. “She seems like your type: funny, way too smart for you – _oof_ ” he doesn’t quite dodge Steve’s kick to his ankle. “Looked like she could fill out a dress, too. Stevie always did like ‘em built for comfort,” he confides to Natasha.

“ _I’m_ going to kick you in a minute,” she threatens, flopping onto a lounge chair.

“I don’t like – it’s not – look, you – “ Steve takes a deep breath and gathers the tattered remnants of his dignity. “This conversation is over.”

“You gonna fix your problem?” Natasha calls after him.

“Fix what? It went fine.”

“Sure, pal.” Bucky glances at the chair Natasha’s in and decides against trying to squeeze into it with her. This conversation needs intervention-level formality. He flops onto the longest sofa instead. “It was going great ‘til you assured her you weren’t interested in her.”

Steve gapes. “I did not say that.”

“Betcha a shiny nickel that’s what she heard. Didn’t you learn anything watching me?”

“I watched you take two dames to a petting party, Buck; not sure that’s gonna work here.”[1]

“Different times,” Bucky assures Natasha, who’s grinning like she’s just had a brilliant idea. “Anyway, you went to one, too. I remember timing how long you spent on your hair.” Steve splutters indignantly even though it’s _absolutely true_ , and Bucky’s voice turns nostalgic. “Got to first base, too, didn’t you?”

“I never made it to bat,” Steve grumbles. He had, technically; one of the girls there called him adorable and kissed his cheek, and then she went back to her real date as he clutched a pillow in his lap for the next hour. A swing and a miss.

“Well, you got out of the dugout for once. It was good for you.”

_Or would that count as a foul_? Steve shakes himself back to the present and glares. “Anyway, it can’t be like that. Not now. Once I get fixed up it’ll be different.”

“Oh, sure.” Natasha’s voice has that flat, mocking tone. “You’re gonna show up at her doorstep a foot taller and a foot wider and tell her that her arty little crush was really Captain America the whole time? A) she’s going to scream. 2) she’s going to think you’re a liar. And _Veh_ ) she’s going to feel like you were deliberately messing with her.”

Steve stares at her. “Sometimes you make my head hurt. And she doesn’t have a crush on me. And we’re both too old for crushes, anyway.”

“You’re never too old for crushes, Steve.”

“So, wait – important question,” Bucky interjects. “You definitely didn’t tell her who you are, so what _did_ you say?”

“Grant Stevens, graphic designer,” Steve answers promptly. He’d had it planned. _That . . . that’s a bad sign, isn’t it_?

Natasha’s looking at him like she knows exactly what he’s thinking, which she probably does. “So will you keep seeing Ms. Built for Comfort, or are you gonna lay low for the foreseeable future and then spring Captain Sixty-Inch Biceps on her?”

“That’s not her name, Romanoff,” Steve growls. “It’s –“

“I know her name, Rogers. I ran a search on her while you were canoodling over the old ladies two weeks ago. Facial recognition,” she says when he splutters in outrage. “She’s mostly clean, likes puppies and filthy jokes. Knows all the words to ‘Luscious Lena from Messina’ – at least she’d get some of your ancient jokes.”

Steve is silent, glaring, and she sighs. “Okay, let’s go kick Bruce until he finds a cure for whatever this is.”

***

Pep talk aside, you stay away from the museum for nearly a week. But you’re not hiding! You’re _working_ – the opus is quickly becoming medium. You really _should_ devote your time to grinding it out, alone with your work in the pretty blue house on Mansion Street that came with the fellowship. You should do what you actually came to do. If you need a distraction, go for drinks with Kate and Lila and the other history nerds. The museum isn’t necessary to your well-being. You don’t need anything that it offers.

You weren’t so proud you couldn’t admit to spending a day or so – as expected – being a sadfaced mess. By the morning of the second day, you’d gone to the historical society just to get away from yourself and be around people who weren’t handsome blonds with slender fingers and awkward smiles and serious blue eyes and the worst old-fashioned jokes. Just _the worst_. Ugh. You don’t even _like_ his jokes.

“You _dooo_ ,” David Tennant’s voice sang in your head.

You do.

The historical society is gearing up for a fundraiser, and you offer to help out in some vague and non-social capacity. That’ll show Grant. Show you. Show your foolish heart that fell too fast, for a man who was just a normal level of nice to you and would never _fathom_ that you’d spent such an indecent amount of time wondering how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair, to have him take your face in his hands, to feel his breath . . .

So you’re going to stick to a strict work-and-volunteer schedule with only occasional museum breaks and if you see Grant, you see him and if not, you’ll forget about him. You’re forgetting him already. You can hardly remember his eyes.

(they’re _so_ blue)

(and his lashes are _so_ long and thick)

(seriously, no money could buy those eyelashes)

And when finally you _do_ go to the museum (because you aren’t hiding), your feet carry you past the room with Joan and the witches and Cormar, taking you to a room with Hudson Valley landscapes. You aren’t avoiding Grant; he could spot you easily if he passed by, you’re just . . . letting it be his choice.

And these landscapes are not cutting it. You snarl at them and flounce out of the room, bouncing chest-first right into someone not much taller than you, whose delicate hands come up to grip your shoulders.

“Excuse me, I – hey!” Grant smiles, looking almost shy. “Hey, I’ve missed you the last few days.” You can’t help but smile back, feeling heat creep up your face. For a second, you gaze at each other all doe-eyed, or limpid-eyed, or however Georgette Heyer would describe it, then Grant clears his throat and steps back and you feel a hot wave of embarrassment wash over you.

_Well, if you’re gonna almost knock the guy down, might as well do it with your boobs_.

“Yeah, I’ve been really busy. But I’ve missed” _you you you_ “relaxing with the art.”

“You look as relaxed as a tire iron,” he says. “I mean – I mean –“ he stammers as you glare up at him. “I mean, you look great but you felt really – wait, no – I didn’t feel _anyth_ –“ he stops, sighs, and hangs his head.

You could kiss him.

Grant peeks at you from under his eyelashes and brushes his hair out of his face. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says simply.

_Oh, fuck you and your stupid face_ , you think, and say “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

He smiles.

You smile.

He smiles. Then he shakes himself, like he just remembered something. “I wanted to ask . . . you know, since you like old movies . . .” he trails off, and you nod, encouraging. “There’s a great movie house that’s doing a Cary Grant thing for the next few weeks – they’re showing _North by Northwest_ on Saturday, then _Notorious_ next weekend, you know, a different film each week for the rest of the summer.”

_Wait. So . . . wait, is he? Is this . . .?_

“Oh, so you’re going with friends?” you ask, not certain how you want him to answer.

“Well, I . . . neither of us have seen the Hitchcock years, so I thought. If you want.”

“Yes,” you say, but not too quickly. “Which theater? I’ll get the tickets.” You wave him off when he starts to protest. “I made like 5 meals from that one lunch; I can get this.” And this way he knows you know it’s not a date. There will be nothing date-like about going to the movies with Grant, sitting there in the dark, hands brushing over popcorn . . . _there will be no popcorn_ , you tell yourself severely.

He tells you, then pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?” he asks offhandedly. “I can pick you up, or –“

“Or we can meet there,” you assure him, tamping down the giddiness at finally getting his number. It is for logistical purposes only.

He smiles.

You smile.

The landscapes aren’t so bad, with a friend.  


[1] Petting parties started going out of fashion in the late 20s/early 30s, probably before Bucky ever felt a boob, but indulge me here. Beth L. Bailey, _From Front Porch to Back Seat: Courtship in Twentieth-Century America_ (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carole King – First Day in August
> 
> You'll fall asleep /  
> With your arm around my shoulder/  
> And nothing will come between us/  
> On the first night in August


	4. Under stars chilled by the winter/ Under an August moon burning above/ You'd be so nice, you'd be paradise/ To come home to and love

_North by Northwest_ is definitely something you kept telling yourself you’d eventually get around to watching, so even if Grant stands you up you’ll get to watch classic cinema and you’ll be happy about it. Not that he even _could_ stand you up, because that only happens on dates and this is not a date. You’re very firm with yourself about that. It’s just friends at the movies. Just two folks, bein’ pals.

You’re early enough to the cinema that you drive around for a little bit, just to make sure you won’t be hanging around outside with people looking at you for very long. It’d be awful to stand there with everyone passing by, going “wow, she looks stood up.” Which won’t happen.

On the third drive-by you see Grant standing by the door, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he’s . . . well, like he’s trying to case the joint and also hide at the same time.

“You’d make a terrible spy,” you say, laughing as you walk up behind him a few minutes later.

Grant shoves his hair out of his eyes and smiles at you. “You know, I’ve been told that before.” He looks down, smile faltering. “Not . . . not lately, though. Why’d you think so?”

“First, you didn’t clock me walking up behind you. And also, you’re not unobtrusive, you know.”

“You noticed me?” That seems to cheer him up.

“You did kind of draw my eye.” _Shit, was that flirty? That was too flirty._ But he’s smiling again, and your heart turns a handspring. You’d turn a handspring for real and fall on your ass _on purpose_ to keep him smiling.

“Shall we?” he holds the door like a gentleman, and for just a second you could swear you feel his hand against the small of your back as you brush past him. It’s gone so fast, it almost certainly couldn’t have been real, but the tingling down your spine says it was.

_Oh, this is gonna be bad._

So it turns out there are some sexy bits in _North by Northwest_ , maybe a little cheesy by modern standards, but still enough to make you think some thoughts about some stuff. It didn’t help that Grant had very chivalrously offered you his jacket the second the air-conditioning blasted on, which was just really . . . Sitting there wrapped in his jacket which smelled _really good_ , like soap and a little hint of some spicy cologne, his arm pressed against yours, hands occasionally brushing over the popcorn that he insisted on buying and then sharing . . . it felt just a little sweet, like a junior-high crush.

Against your better judgment, you try to think of ways to keep the evening going.

“Do you want to get a drink? There’s a bar just down the block, kind of a hipstery place. I’ve never been but it’s always busy.” That’s the kind of place that artsy guys would like, right?

Grant smiles for a split-second, then, just like before, it fades. “No, I’d . . . I’d better not.” He shuffles his feet and looks as disappointed as you feel. “I just . . . can’t do crowds. Sorry.”

And now you’re out of options. You can’t invite him back to your place, because A) too forward and B) it’ll sound try-hard. And you can’t go back to his, even if he invites you, because: also A. Not that he seems inclined to ask; he’s shifting his feet awkwardly and won’t quite meet your eyes. Okay . . . is this something _you_ did, or is it a Grant thing? You can’t remember doing anything to put him off.

_Or maybe he doesn’t want to be seen with you_. It’s an awful thought, uncharitable to both of you. Still, he wouldn’t be the first man to enjoy a woman’s company as long as no one he knows is around to see it. And in any case, you’d shot your shot. Shooted your. Shooteth. You’d damn well tried.

“Ok! Well, this was fun. I’ll see you.”

“No, wait –“ he grabs your hand and you try to tamp down on any cliché nonsense, because you have far too much good sense to ‘feel the electricity’ or whatever.

_No, I don’t. I definitely don’t._

“Maybe someplace a little farther from the action? There’s one of those ice cream places, you know, the new-fangled ones where you can add in forty kinds of candy?”

That’s so much better than a dark, crowded bar where you can’t carry on a conversation, or even see who you’re talking to.

“I can bring you back to pick up your car, after?” Grant suggests, sounding eager.

He guides you to the parking lot, to a car that’s clearly expensive, but too classy to shout it. It’s a . . . you don’t know, an Audi or something, like a Tony Stark-level car. It’s spotless, save the messenger bag that Grant whisks out of the passenger seat as he opens the door for you, and it smells like someone rubbed down the leather with a cloud.

“It’s a nice car,” you say, when he’s seated next to you, buckling himself in.

“Yeah, it’s a, a company car.”

You had no idea graphic designers _got_ company cars, let alone the kind where the seats were made from certified happy cows. It’s deeply impolite to follow that line of thought, though.

“How’s work going, anyway? You haven’t said much about it lately.”

Grant shrugs and eases into traffic. “It’s work. There’ve been some . . . frustrations, recently. Some things we can’t quite get to the bottom of. And it’s pretty much all in my area, so. You know.”

“So you definitely need this ice cream,” you tease.

“Oh my _God_ , I need this ice cream.” He sounds so fervent that you burst into laughter. He joins in, and the rest of the ride passes in companionable silence.

***

He’s going to be sick later, but it’s worth it. Dark chocolate mint, with chocolate chips and chocolate shavings and Oreo cookies and hot fudge added in – his younger self wouldn’t have believed there were so many things you could put in ice cream. He remembers standing in a grocery, not long after he’d un-thawed, staring at the _wall_ of ice cream, trying to work up the self-righteousness to scoff at the wastefulness and excess. In the end, he’d bought six pints in flavors he’d never heard of and eaten them all that night. His stomach didn’t even notice.

And now he’s sitting in an ice cream parlor with a woman who noticed him, noticed _him_ , looking like _this_ , and he’s trying to keep up with the flow of conversation when really he just wants to kiss the hot fudge off the corner of your mouth and then finish his ice cream.

“It just hit really hard, you know – I grew up on Bowie; that was like, the soundtrack of my _life_ ,” you’re gesticulating wildly, and Steve’s trying to keep an eye on where your spoon is flying. “And even when he got older he wasn’t _old_. So it was like ‘oh my god, he was _just there_.’ You know? You probably have someone like that,” you say, the invitation clear. Steve’s mind races – someone who’s passed recently that’d be age-appropriate ( _or apparent-age appropriate – you gotta stop lying, Rogers_ ).

“Patty Andrews,” he blurts out, and it’s not like that’s _wrong_ , they’d listened to the Andrews Sisters til the victory discs were scratched, and he’d barely been out of the ice for a year, still adjusting, when she’d passed. They’d gone on a date once – him and Patty, Bucky and Maxene – for publicity. LaVerne was married; she was officially there to “chaperone” her sisters with Steve and Bucky. They were all real nice gals. Steve smiles wistfully, remembering; they’d swapped USO stories for hours.[1]

He comes back to the present to see you watching him, a fond smile on your face. It’s a little thrilling, to know it’s for _him._ And it’s a little embarrassing, to realize that he just cited someone your grandparents’ age as _the soundtrack of his life_. But on the other hand, it’s honest. But on the _other_ other hand . . . _Gonna need more hands if you want to keep juggling like this_ , he told himself sternly.

“You’re full of surprises,” you say, making a gesture like you’re about to reach for his hand, and he’s unreasonably disappointed when you don’t. And extremely guilty, because you don’t know how right you are.

Instead, you take another bite of your sundae and swing your feet. By silent agreement, you’d both eschewed the bar stools and taken one of the few tables, but even those are a few inches taller than normal. Steve is deeply grateful that the couple of inches he has on you lets him put his feet on the ground. Or close enough to fake it. Swinging feet is cute when a lady does it, but he’s not looking to emphasize his lack of stature on a date.

Of course it’s _not_ a date, not really; he didn’t ask you right and he let you buy the movie tickets –although you’re very modern, after all, you might insist on splitting even if he’d asked you all formal. He wouldn’t mind you offering, he thinks, but Sarah Rogers raised her boy to treat a lady properly, and he’s planning to do exactly that. As soon as he has his _goddamned body back_.

_You could ask her now_ , his brain suggests, hopefully. _You could. She likes you. She_ noticed _you. She’s wearing your jacket in public. Oh, God._ He’s thinking like a teenager again, like he’s back in Brooklyn and has miraculously found a real knockout girl who ranks him higher than semi-goon, and not just because she’s trying to get closer to Bucky.

Steve feels a little pride in that, that Bucky’s not even here to help and smooth things over, and he’s still doing pretty good.

So he reaches out, brushes his fingers against yours. When you don’t pull away, he tangles your fingers together and looks up at you under his eyelashes, a look that worked _really well_ for Cap-sized Steve with the couple of women he’d tried it on. It’s obviously working on you now, if the pink in your cheeks is any indication. Your breath catches just a little when his thumb strokes the softness of your hand, and if Steve felt any more full of himself his scrawny chest would burst out of his shirt.

Your voice is very soft. “Like I said . . . full of surprises.”

Guilt shoots right through his gut. _Yeah, you’re a real big man putting the moves on a woman who doesn’t even know your_ name, _you jerk._

He allows himself one more regretful squeeze before he pulls back.

“Speaking of old music,” you begin – and he feels shamefully glad that you’re moving the conversation on – “did I tell you what the historical society settled on for their fundraiser?”

He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.

“A taxi dance!” you proclaim, inviting him to be astonished along with you.

Steve chokes a little. “A . . . a taxi dance? Like . . . where you _pay_?” Now _that’s_ a blast from the past he never expected to see again, not even with those college kids who dress up in their granddad’s duds and lindy hop. (He and Bucky got invited to a competition a couple of years ago, right after Bucky was cleared, and even though Steve couldn’t dance well he’d had a lot more fun than he had seventy years ago. Bucky, it turned out, could still cut one hell of a rug.)

“Like where you pay! Costumes and everything.” You’re digging out the dregs of your sundae, shaking your head in amusement. “There’s a cover to get in, then the guests pay for each dance. They’re still working out how much and whether it’s gonna be period-accurate – you know, only women as dancers, with male guests.”

“There was one that went the other way,” Steve offers, “and a few where guys could dance with, um, with other guys.” He thinks for a minute. “But those were . . . you know, kind of back-room deals.”

Your eyes light up. “See, interwar social history isn’t my field, and I think the fundraising committee just saw a couple of movies about taxi dancers and figured they were close enough to real.[2] Do you remember where you read about the other ones? My friend Lila – she volunteers there – she’ll riot if she can’t dance with her girlfriend.” You’re pulling out your ever-present notebook expectantly.

“Oh, I. Um. On the internet?” Steve is mentally slapping himself upside the head, since neither Bucky nor Nat are here to do it. (He’s pretty sure about that; he’s been checking out everyone who comes into the shop, and unless they’ve found a new way to hide Bucky’s arm they’re leaving Steve to his fate tonight.)

“I know there’s a book about gay New York before the war, but I haven’t read it,” you muse, tapping your pencil against the table. “Anyway, I guess it’s not necessary right now. I don’t need to footnote my suggestions for the dance,”[3] you say, with a wry smile.

“But you ought to have a variety of dancers, if you’re gonna do it,” he insists, because a lot of the changes he’s seen are good changes, and this is one of them. “Are . . . are you going to dance?” he asks, feeling the tips of his ears flare red.

“Oh, _god_ no!” you exclaim, so loudly that a few people look over and frown at Steve like he’s pestering you. You wave and mouth “sorry,” and they go back to their own sugar bombs. “I can’t dance _at all_ ,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I can trip myself lying flat on my back; I definitely can’t do a foxtrot in public. I’ll just help with refreshments.”

“I’m pretty sure most of the fellas at those things weren’t trying to win prizes,” Steve assures you, remembering his own few trips. “They were just trying to get their arms around a dame. Um. I assume.”

You look intrigued and also mildly repulsed. “I wonder if it’d be worse to have some stranger sweat gin all over me[4] or not be asked at all.”

“Not being asked,” Steve said decisively.

“I dunno,” you toy with your sundae spoon and look pensive. “I’ve been not-asked way more than I’ve been asked, and it’s no fun, but it _sucks_ to be dancing with someone who’s drunk and grabby and rude.”

“I can’t imagine anyone not asking you to dance.” Though, to be honest, now he wants to fight any and every man who put that look on your face. Then he, Steve, will ask you to dance and probably won’t step on all of your toes as long as the song is a slow one.

You toss your hair and smile, but it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Well, I’m not going to be the one dancer who doesn’t make any money at this thing, so I’ll just keep the punchbowl as my partner.” You peek up at him, and his fingers itch to draw that exact expression – hopeful, maybe a little coy? _Is that what that looks like?_ he wonders. It’s not an expression many women have wasted on him, and he feels oddly puffed up again, and then . . . like he ought to say something. You’re definitely waiting for him to respond.

“Guess I’ll have to drink a lot of punch, then.” He doesn’t take your hand again, but _god,_ he wants to.

[1] Check out Maxene Andrews, _Over Here, Over There: The Andrews Sisters and the USO Stars in World War II_ (New York: Kensington, 1993).

[2] There are half a dozen or so from the peak taxi-dance era. _The Taxi Dancer_ (1927), with Joan Crawford; _Ten Cents a Dance_ (1931), with Barbara Stanwyck; and _Child of Manhattan_ (1933) are the best known. _Sweet Charity_ has a taxi-dancing protagonist, but it’s from a much later period. There’s also a very cute George Burns/Gracie Allen short on youtube, called “Once Over, Light” with Gracie as a taxi dancer.

[3] In proper Chicago/Turabian style

[4] _A League of Their Own_ , directed by Penny Marshall (Columbia Pictures, 1992), DVD Special Edition (2004).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank Sinatra – You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To
> 
> Under stars chilled by the winter/  
> Under an August moon burning above/  
> You'd be so nice, you'd be paradise/  
> To come home to and love


	5. Pale September, I wore the time like a dress that year/ The autumn days swung soft around me, like cotton on my skin

“I’ve passed this a hundred times and didn’t notice it,” Grant says.

“You didn’t notice pedestrians on the Mid-Hudson Bridge?”

“I noticed them; I just didn’t realize it was a whole thing.” The whole thing was a 4-and-a-half-mile loop that went from the waterfront over the bridge to the state park, then up to the Walkway Over the Hudson, through town, and back again.

Classes had started again, which meant the museum was filled with freshman art history students who hadn’t lost interest yet. “Give it a couple more weeks,” you’d assured Grant, “and we’ll have it pretty much to ourselves again.”

In the meantime, though, you’d agreed to find alternate ways to get you out of the house and Grant out of the office. This week was supposed to have unseasonably cool temperatures (meaning it shouldn’t get above 80), so you were taking the opportunity to enjoy it. Grant had apparently endless time that he could take off work, and had offered to join you.

You’d teased him about that, about his secret-agent job, or his fake witness-protection job, that let him just wander off in the middle of the day. He’d chuckled along and said that whenever the current project’s issues were solved, he’d lose most of his free time, so he was making the most of it now.

“How long _have_ you lived up here?” you ask, fiddling with the camera on your phone. “Cheese!”

Grant smiles obligingly, his back to the railing. “Uhh . . .” he looks sheepish. “2015, more or less. I was away for a bit, but yeah. A few years.”

“Not a fan of the outdoors, then?” He’s joked about his asthma, but promised it was fine when you suggested this walk. “Allergies?”

“Strangely enough, not a single allergy,” he says. “I just, I grew up in the city, and there weren’t a lot of parks in that part of Brooklyn when I was a kid. Plus, I was always kinda . . .” he gestures to himself, a sweeping motion that takes in the entirety of his small frame. “My mother worried about me, running the streets, getting in fights.”

“Getting in fights?” you hoot. Grant is sublimely even-tempered, as far as you’ve seen. He barely even grouses at traffic, which shouldn’t even count as temperamental in your book. “I can’t at all picture you starting fights, and I’ve got a really good imagination.”

“I never started them!” he says, offended. “But if some _other_ guy started it, bein’ rude or something . . .”

“Then you’d finish it?” You bump him with your hip, and he laughs and puts his arm around your waist.

“Well, ah. Sometimes. Kind of. If I was lucky, buh – my pal James would sniff me out and get ‘em off me.” He grins, lost in nostalgia. “He was like a bloodhound if he thought I might be getting into trouble. One time he found me in an alley behind the movies – I hadn’t seen him _all day_ – he was just going about his business and thought ‘geez, I bet Grant’s in hot water,’ and I sure was.”

“What, was someone talking at the movies?”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, and deliberately looks away.

“Oh my god.”

“It’s not like – look, he was being really disrespectful,” he says, pulling away sulkily.

You stroke his arm, and he turns his palm up to catch your hand in his. “I just find it very hard to imagine you losing your temper. You’re always so sweet.”

He’s staring hard at your entwined hands, and you wonder what he’s thinking. Maybe he doesn’t like being called sweet; some men object to any description that might sound weak, and if he’s feeling insecure it might not go over well. You wish you could tell him that his height has never been a negative for you. It’s nice to not feel overwhelmed by a man, to be able to look into his eyes with ease, to (presumably) be able to kiss him without anyone getting a crick in their neck . . . but even after weeks of haunting the museum together, semi-cuddling at the movies, and holding hands in public, you still feel like he’s not quite. Like he’s not. Like he might not want you.

_You ought to just stop_ , you tell yourself. _Walk away from whatever this is before your dumbass heart gets broken and it’s all your fault. You boyfriend-zoned him and he doesn’t even –_

But he pins you with a look from those intense blue eyes and presses his lips to your fingers. “Well. It’s easy to be sweet with you.”

And that’s why you can’t walk away.

There are sailboats on the river, just a few, and some late summer wildflowers growing along the path that Grant wraps into an honest-to-gosh cloth handkerchief for you to keep. The breeze off the river is still a little chilly, and Grant puts his arm around you again as you stroll on. The first time he did it, you felt self-conscious about the breadth of your waist. It’s one thing for him to know that you’re chubby, zaftig, fat – but another entirely for him to _feel_ the softness of your body, feel it yield against his hands. But he didn’t seem to mind, not that first time nor any other, and by now you feel comfortable enough to put your own arm around his narrow waist.

(The first time he _tried_ put his arm around you was at the movies, that second week as you watched Ingrid Bergman pine over Cary Grant in _Notorious_. Like you yourselves were in a period piece, he’d offered his jacket as soon as you got into the theater, settled next to you like a gentleman, and about twenty minutes in had done what _would_ have been the smoothest yawn-and-stretch maneuver known to man, if he hadn’t accidentally smacked the back of your head and then spilled the entire bucket of popcorn in his haste to apologize. His cheeks were still red when you walked out at the end of the movie. So honestly it was a wonder he’d tried again at all, bless him.)

“So what was it like, growing up in the city?”

He considers for a moment. “Loud,” he says, and you both laugh. “Louder than here, but not as loud as the city is now. No sirens, more neighbors yelling and talking and babies crying. Kids running around. Pretty loose rein on most of them – as long as they were back by dinner, their mothers didn’t check.”

“Probably glad to have a second to themselves,” you joke.

“No doubt.”

“It sounds kind of idyllic. I didn’t realize New York was that safe in the 70s and 80s. The news made it seem like the whole city was packed with Times Square pimps and dealers.”

“Oh, ah, well.” Grant rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, which you now recognize as a sign of nerves. “Well, you know, every borough is different, and my neighborhood was mostly just . . . poor. Lot of immigrants and all of us poor.”

“Were your parents . . . ?”

“Yeah, from Ireland. Looking for a better life.” He looks out across the river, his eyes downcast. You knew they’d both died young; his father when he was a baby – or maybe right before he was born? You’re a little unclear – and his mother right after he’d left high school.

You give him a little squeeze. “And now their son is a hotshot graphic designer who stares at moderately-famous art for fun.”

He snorts. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Ok; barely-famous art.”

He looks aghast. “There’s a _Chagall_ in there.”

“Most people would guess that’s a wine.”

“You can’t say stuff like that, doll; you’re gonna give me dyspepsia,” He shakes his head at you, but the sadness is gone from his eyes as you walk on.

***

_It’s a good thing modern medicine has come as far as it has_ , Steve thinks; he’d have been hard-pressed to make this walk with you seventy years ago. It’s not the distance – he wandered all over Brooklyn looking for work, _fought_ all over Brooklyn when he had to. It’s the – it’s just –

His heart started pounding while he was getting dressed this morning, and it keeps surging whenever you touch him. It’s the same every time you meet – his heart races when he thinks about you, _gallops_ when you let him take your hand, or slide his arm around you. It’s only when he looks at you, looks right into your eyes, that everything stills. His pulse slows, the world goes weightless. In your eyes, he can just be . . . he can be. Not be Captain America, not carry that weight. Just be a man, with a woman he adores. Is fond of. If he could stay like this forever, he wouldn’t need that damned inhaler.

But when you squeeze him close and make jokes about art, he’s hard-pressed to stay on his feet.

He wonders, idly, if the de-seruming had put him as he had been, entirely unchanged. Not just his health, but his whole being. He feels like a teenager with an arm around his first girlfriend – not that he’d had one then – too nervous to ask for a kiss, instead of a thirty-five-year-old man who’d had girlfriends, plural. Well, two. Sort of. And a couple of ladies who’d gotten _very_ friendly but weren’t quite interested in being serious. _Which is their choice, of course,_ he thinks hastily. _And it’s not like I objected_.

Still. He’s felt like this before. But only once, this intensely.

_You’re playing a dangerous game, pal,_ he scolds himself. _Getting this close when you’re still lying to her. Should have backed off until they got you fixed up._ His hand flexes on your waist and you glance at him, smiling like an angel. _Got no right to mess with her like this, acting like she’s your girl one minute, then pulling back when you feel guilty. Got no right putting your hands on a lady when you can’t even be honest with her._

But what _can_ he say? “I’m really Captain America, and Iron Man and the Hulk promised me that in a few weeks I’ll be the kind of guy you’ll actually want to be with.”

_She wants to be with you_ now _, genius_.

You do, he knows.

It’s not Captain America who gets to hold your hand. It’s not America’s Golden Boy who’s got his arm around you, watching the breeze lift strands of your hair into the light. It’s not even Nomad, the persona he’d worn for a while until he and Tony could get themselves right again (and the ladies had _really_ liked Nomad. It was almost a shame to shave off that beard when he picked up the shield again. Maybe you’d like the beard, if he grew it out again). No, the guy you’re with is just little snack-sized Steve.[1] Or Grant.

_Shit._

“You ok?” you murmur, shifting against him.

Steve sighs. “Yeah.” He can feel your eyes on him, and he risks a brief, heart-stopping look into them. “It’s a good day.”

The sun is high by the time you reach the Walkway Over the Hudson, the bridge almost empty, the wind picking up. You lean on the northern railing, looking at the boats at the marina upriver. You look so tranquil, your cheeks just the slightest bit reddened by the sun and wind, your eyes clear and wide.

Steve edges away, pulls out his sketchbook. You look at him quizzically as he digs out his graphite pencils.

He takes a breath. “Can I draw you?” He’s done it before, secretly, in bits and pieces. Your eyes – pages of your eyes, over and over – the curve of your mouth, the place where necks meets shoulder should meet his lips, your bosom – no, the neckline of your blouse, last week, and the way it draped against your skin.

(But also, yes, your breasts, and his hands on your breasts, and the way they would fill his hands, and how your nipples would harden against his palms, against his lips. He’d torn that one from the sketchbook as soon as it was done.)

He can see the shyness in your expression now, but you nod.

“How do you want me?” you ask softly.

Oh, _God_.

_Every way. Always._

His hands are trembling, so he shakes them out and busies himself choosing a pencil. “Just, just look at whatever you were before.”

He roughs out a sketch, the lines and angles, how you lean against the railing with your hip cocked. You’re a little tense, now, aware of yourself in a way you hadn’t been before, and Steve reaches out to stroke your hair.

“Relax, sweetheart.”

If your breath is a little shaky, he pretends not to notice. If _his_ is, well, he’s got asthma.

He stops every now and then, lets you move and shake the stiffness out. It’s absolutely not a gambit to make you let him readjust you back into position. But, like. He’s not _above_ that. His hand slides along your hip, dangerously low, and when you make a soft, unsteady sound Steve’s heart pounds so quickly he thinks he might actually have a heart attack. That’s it. He’s going to die here on this bridge because he came _this close_ to touching a lady’s derrière. He can hear Sam’s voice now; “Cause of death: that booty.”

He chokes on a laugh and you turn, lips pursed. “Sorry, sorry. Just thought about a friend of mine. He likes to poke at me when I’m being . . . when I’m in my head.” He ought to step back, get back to the sketch, but he’s not moving. “You’d like him.”

“And here I was, thinking I was your only friend,” you tease.

“You should meet him,” he says before he can get his goddamn mouth back in line with his brain. “In a . . . sometime . . . after a while.”

The light in your eyes dims a little, and you look away. Steve steps back at last, picking up the sketchbook. He’s almost finished; it’s not sophisticated, but it’s got your curves and your hair waving around your face and the peaceful expression that he loves.

_Loves. No, not now. Not like this. You can’t do this._

His pencil stutters across the paper, mercifully missing anything delicate.

“Grant?” You’re facing him now, biting your lower lip.

“It’s ok; my hand just – “

“What is this?”

“– cramped, and. What?”

“This thing we’re doing. What is it?”

He looks at you, brain gone static-y like a radio late at night. He looks at you until your gaze drops and you step back and he has to grab your hand, has to pull you back, has to keep you here with him, because if you walk away something important will be lost. Something that matters more than he wants to consider.

“I like you,” he whispers. “I . . . I like you _so much_ , sometimes I can’t breathe. I just . . .” You try to tug your hand away, but he clings to you, pulls your hand to his chest, lays it against his heart that’s beating like a drum. “You’re so beautiful. I just need to take it slow. Please.”

_Liar, liar, you’d take her now if your lungs wouldn’t explode_.

You’re silent for a long moment, then you bring your other hand up to cover his. Your smile is soft, uncertain, but real.

“I like you, too.”

[1] Bucky’s the only one who’ll say it, and Steve loves him for it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiona Apple – Pale September
> 
> Pale September, I wore the time like a dress that year/  
> The autumn days swung soft around me, like cotton on my skin


	6. September morn/  We danced until the night/  Became a brand new day

You’d _agonized_ over what to wear: to be as historically accurate as possible, or to look good. They were very definitely two different things; the early 30s still had the loose, figure-skimming silhouette of the 20s, and it made you look like a box with hair. On the other hand, there were a lot of vintage- _ish_ dresses that could hit the basic notes, but wouldn’t make you try and wrangle your chest into the period-appropriate flatness that you’d never achieve anyway.

_And Grant likes your boobs._

You push down that highly inappropriate thought, but you _have_ caught him looking a couple of times. Not down your shirt or anything, he’s classy about it, he just . . . notices. In a not-just-friends way.

_He called you beautiful,_ your mind sings. _He said he can’t breathe sometimes_. Which, ok, asthma. But even so, it pointed to him wanting more than holding hands, and cuddling at the movies, and that time on the bridge when he looked at you and made your skin catch fire. That was weeks ago, and he’s freer with his touches now – kissing your hand, keeping his arm around you almost all the time . . . but he’s holding back from more. You haven’t met his friends. He keeps having reasons not to meet yours. You don’t think he’s ashamed of you, not really, but . . . _but why else?_ your brain asks, because your brain is an asshole that can’t make up its mind.

You don’t want to push him, but you do want to know. Something. You need to know _something_.

So you’d found a gorgeous blue velvet dress online that only needed some gauzy little sleeves attached to make it work pretty well. There were a couple of guys at the shop when you were trying it on; the big broad-shouldered one said it made you look like Jean Harlow, and his boyfriend (you assumed), a handsome black man with an amazing smile, said it reminded him of Jane Russell. Pair it with t-strap flats, because you’re not trying to stand in heels for four hours, and some moderate buttressing underneath, and you flatter yourself that you might get a couple of Tex Avery reactions.

Or just one.

Just the one that matters.

You tuck the bag with your sweaty old clothes under one of the refreshments tables. It seems like everyone who’s ever walked through the historical society’s doors have been decorating, prepping, and generally fussing all day long. You’ve got just enough time left to mutually exclaim over each others’ clothing before the (hopefully well-heeled and generous) throng arrives. You’re sharing squeals and flattering remarks with the other volunteers, when the society president enters like the prow of a ship, in a dress that’s almost certainly a real Schiaparelli.

“Ladies! and gentlemen,” she nods toward you all. “Thank you for all your hard work, conceiving and organizing our annual fundraiser. The center looks beautiful, and I’m delighted that so many of you have chosen to follow the theme . . . to the best of your abilities,” she says, side-eyeing some of the group. If she includes you in that, at least she doesn’t look at you while she does it. “And I am _most_ gratified to tell you that this event is already a success. Thanks to a generous donation from the Stark Foundation, we have made our budget for the next fiscal year!”

“For the next ten fiscal years,” the vice-president mutters, sounding awed.

“Does that mean we don’t have to dance?” one of the volunteers asks, a college girl teetering in heels that look amazing and terrifying.

The president doesn’t dignify that with a response, just sails on into the foyer to start greeting the incoming donors.

The early trickle of guests turns into a deluge. There are so many people dancing, so many crowding around the refreshments and the side tables, so many spilling out onto the lawn where it’s almost quiet enough for a conversation. Someone managed to get the air conditioning turned up, but you’re still sweating a little within the first half-hour.

“Do all your events go this well?” you ask Kate, who’s also working refreshments. She’s in a beaded black number that almost looks like a real period outfit, if you ignored that the bottom turns into chiffon pants. Kate is a freaking genius.

She laughs delightedly. “I think everyone heard that rumor.”

“What rumor?”

“That the Avengers might show up. Or maybe just Tony Stark. He’s been pretty generous to every charity and nonprofit in the county since they moved upstate.”

You’d forgotten that the Avengers facility was nearby. That did explain why your Stark grant was tied to local research.

“They’re not really, though, are they?” It was a ridiculous rumor, but after that donation . . .

You share a speculative look, and Kate shrugs. “They better let me out to dance with Captain America, is all I’m saying.”

Lila, resplendent in a floral silk, leans over. “I’d buy everybody’s tickets and trade them for one dance with Black Widow.”

“She could kill you with her thighs, Li.”

“God, I hope so.”

That’s all the conversation you have time for, as a song ends and another rush starts. You’re trying to dab discreetly at your face with a napkin when the president sweeps by and takes your arm.

“You don’t want to be stuck behind this table all night, do you? You ought to dance.”

This is an unexpected twist; you aren’t sure she knows your entire name, and she’s not tugging at Lila or Kate.

“I’m fine here – I don’t even know how to dance,” you demur, but she’s having none of it.

“There’s a gentleman asking after you. He’s made a very nice donation . . . but of course you don’t have to,” she says soothingly. “He did seem to indicate that you knew each other.”

_Grant?_

You can’t see him over the crowd, but as you get closer to the door you catch the light glinting off his golden hair. His face lights up as you come into sight, and he stands up straight and brushes his hair out of his eyes.

“You look beautiful.” His voice has a little gravel in it, which honestly is better than oogah-horn eyes any day.

“So do you! Or, handsome. You look handsome.” He’s wearing dress greens so crisp they could cut paper, absolutely period-perfect.

“What, you think fellas can’t be beautiful?”

You feel giddy and young, just standing there looking at each other.

“I haven’t had any gin,” he says, that slow, crooked grin spreading across his face.

“Well, then. Got your tickets, sailor?”

“Soldier,” he corrects, and hands up a _fucking fistful_ of them. You stare, and burst into the hardest, bone-deepest belly-laugh you’ve had in years. He scuffs his feet and looks up at you sheepishly, then holds out a hand.

Grant tugs you gently to a less-inhabited corner of the dance floor as a slower song begins, one that you can just sway to and still call it dancing. There’s a fumble of hands and elbows, then he’s got you in the right position, holding one of your hands in his, the other on his shoulder, so close your breasts nearly brush his jacket as you move together.

Thank god for the buttressing, or it wouldn’t take too many songs before everyone could see how you feel.

The first song passes without words. You spend a lot of time looking at your feet, even though you’re not really moving.

“You’re doing fine,” he says, and your head jerks up, expecting to see him laughing at you. His eyes are soft, instead, his head tilted a little to the side. You can feel your cheeks going at least three-alarm.

“I like your dress. It’s really soft”

_Oh god. Oh god, my hair’s going to catch fire._

“I . . . I like your uniform. It looks vintage.” At least you can still talk.

“Nah, just a costume. You’d have to special-order to get ‘em this small during the war. And the army fussed about special orders.” His smile is wry, and his brow furrows.

“Well, that was silly of them,” you say firmly.

“Think I’d’ve made a good soldier?” he asks.

“I think you get pretty determined to do whatever you’ve decided on. So yeah, if you decided to do that.”

His grip tightens on your hip, and he pulls you fractionally closer. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Likewise.” It’s not a great reply, but you don’t have a lot of breath to work with. You wonder if he’ll kiss you tonight, know that he won’t, and kick yourself for feeling disheartened anyway.

You gaze at each other for a moment, then Grant clears his throat. “It looks like your dance is a hit,” he says.

“Yeah – oh! Did you hear? The Stark Foundation made a massive donation, so even if nobody showed we’d still be in the black.”

“The, the Stark Foundation?” He looks startled, then his eyes narrow. “How would they even hear about . . .”

“Dunno.” What an odd reaction. “The regulars say he’s been making donations everywhere since the whole, you know, relocation thing.”

“That’s true . . .” he says. “Still . . . oh, well. That’s nice of him. Of the foundation.“

“I guess someone also started a rumor that the Avengers would be here.” His grip tightens, and he’s holding you indecently close, as Madam President would no doubt say if she saw. You watch the color drain from his face. “Grant, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” His arms loosen, and you step back a little.

“Oh, no. Are you on the wrong side of the Avengers? Did you design logos for supervillains?” you tease, and it works – he laughs and draws you back into proper form.

“No, no, I just –“ his ears are turning pink again “– I just don’t wanna have to share my girl with Captain America. Or the Falcon.”

“I very much doubt Captain America would be interested in your girl.” _My girl my girl_ , your brain singsongs at you.

“Captain America would _adore_ you,” he breathes, and oh gosh, you might actually get that kiss tonight. “And I hear the Falcon is very charming.”

“Well, they’d have a very long wait,” you say. “I’m pretty sure all those tickets have me booked solid for the night. But I do have a friend who’d mortgage her house to dance with the Black Widow.”

“That’s a brave lady,” he laughed. “But. But would you rather?” You look confused, and he plunges on. “Would you rather dance with Captain America? Or someone like him?”

Is it possible he doesn’t know how you feel? Sometime very soon you’ll need to kiss all his doubts away. “Now, why would I want to dance with Captain America when I’ve got –“ you check his double bars “– Captain Stevens?”

Another song begins, Paul Anka instructing his partner to put their head on his shoulder, and you and Grant share a giggle as half the room obeys. “That would never happen at a real taxi,” he says, “not unless a fella paid extra and the chaperone wasn’t looking.”

“I think a lot of them are married, or partnered up,” you respond. “I wouldn’t put my head on just anybody’s shoulder, either.”

“Would you put your head on mine?” he asks, the words spilling out so quickly you barely catch them. Just as his gaze drops, disappointed, you bite your lip and gently lay your head down against his jacket. His heart is beating so fast, you can hear it pounding through the wool. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and presses his cheek against your hair. You can’t breathe at all, your heart is galloping like the Kentucky Derby, and if you stand up straight you’ll likely faint.

When’s the last time a man made you feel like this? Made your skin hot all over, gave you goosebumps through the heat? Took your breath away with a look, made you feel weak and powerful all at once? Held you like you were precious, like you deserved his tenderness? When’s the last time you were so in love?

_In love. Oh, no._

Grant makes a quizzical noise and holds you tighter, his hand rubbing your back. “It’s ok; I’ve got you,” he murmurs, breath soft against your cheek.

_Please, please let that be true_.

Paul turns to Frank, Frank becomes Sidney, and on and on. You don’t make it back to the refreshments tables. Miraculously, you don’t step on Grant’s toes, even when the music speeds up. You do get a little crick in your neck after a few songs, so the head-on-shoulder thing has to stop, but then Louis and Ella wax poetic about dancing cheek-to-cheek. It’s the easiest thing in the world to step closer and press your cheeks together. Grant’s cheeks are on fire, too, and it makes you feel better about your own thermonuclear facial bombs.

And then the last song ends, and no more follow. You both look up; the hall is half-empty. Kate’s packing up the refreshments; she catches your eye and gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up, then waves at Grant when he looks over.

“Guess I monopolized you all night,” he says, not sounding a bit guilty about it.

“Well, gotta keep the customer happy.”

“I can help you clean up?” He hasn’t quite let go of your hand; his thumb brushes over your fingers, and you guide him over to Kate, praying that she’ll be discreet about –

“Hey! You must be Grant!” – about that. Kate’s beaming at him as he shakes her hand. “We’ve heard . . .” she glances at you “a little about you. Not a lot. A reasonable amount of information. Mostly good.”

“Mostly?” Grant directs his question toward you.

You shrug and load a tray of punch cups onto the rolly cart thing. “You like Ellsworth Kelly. Lines must be drawn.”

He huffs at you and hefts a punchbowl. “No eye for color, you.”

“Black and white aren’t colors, Grant.” You’ve had this argument a few times.

“You’re one step above a Philistine.” But he’s smiling as he carries the bowl off toward a group of students browbeaten into doing the washing.

“So he’s nice,” Kate muttered. “Not what I expected, but still a cutie. And he’s got it bad for you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you giggle, because that’s what you’re supposed to say. “Does he?”

“Honey, he bought a hundred and fifty dance tickets.”

You run the math in your head. “That’s like seven hours of dancing.” _And like fifteen hundred dollars._

Kate shimmies at you. “Maybe he thinks you’ll dance for him once he takes you home.”

“No . . .” _Yes!_ “And anyway, I thought Lila was giving us both a ride?”

“Not you. Not anymore.” A worrying smile spreads across her face as Grant comes back to the table. “Sorry, but Lila’s been called away. We’re all going to have to find rides home.” Lila is standing ten feet away, busily wrapping up leftover cookies with a smirk on her face.

“I can take you home,” Grant offers.

“You –“

“That’s so sweet of you,” Kate says. “Such a gentleman.”

“Have some cookies,” Lila adds, handing over a package.

“We’re not done cleaning up, though . . .” you say, feeling overwhelmed and cared for, even if it is a little overbearing.

“We’ve got it; you go have fun.”

“Don’t get fresh!” Kate calls after you, as Grant propels you toward the door.

“But get a little fresh!” Lila laughs.

[Dress inspo](https://flic.kr/p/2gTrsgp)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neil Diamond – September Morn
> 
> September morn/   
> We danced until the night/   
> Became a brand new day


	7. I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face/ And you were thinking 'bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace/ When the leaves come falling down/ In September, when the leaves come falling down

_Now, they just cuddle up, and oh, boy! How you feel!_

_You sure can love ‘em when you’re not behind the wheel!_

_There’s a great attraction,_

_Lots of satisfaction,_

_Sittin’ in a rumble seat. **[1]**_

Steve takes a deep breath and wills the song out of his head as he watches you slide into the seat of his car. From this angle, he’s got a killer view of your décolletage and a desperate urge to just find some quiet place to park like a couple of teenagers.

_Do teenagers even do that anymore?_ he wonders as he circles the car to the driver’s side. _They’ve got a lot more options than we ever did_. Not that he’s ever been parking, but he’s heard stories. Probably not all true, now that he thinks about it, just boys bragging about stuff they wished they could do. Bucky had caught one of them out, once, boasting about getting up Millie Finch’s skirt in the backseat of a Packard.

“You don’t have a Packard, you chump, and Millie Finch was at the pictures with me last night.” And the guy – Steve can’t remember his name anymore – had gone off with his tail between his legs.

“You weren’t at the pictures last night, Buck,” Steve said when the other guys were out of earshot. “We listened to the game, and then _Five Star Theater_ came on and we kept trying to draw on a Clark Gable mustache.” They’d been fifteen or sixteen, if Steve recalled correctly, and if young Bucky had more luck with facial hair than Steve, it wasn’t by much.

“Yeah, but he was lying anyway,” Bucky shrugged. “And even if he wasn’t, you can’t kiss and tell. At least not with names. If I found a girl sweet enough get in the backseat with me, I wouldn’t tell her name around for the fellas to laugh at.”

He _had_ found a girl, Steve was pretty sure, not long after that. It might even have been Millie Finch, but true to his word, Bucky never said.

What Bucky _had_ said had been enough to keep an impressionable young man up at night for a very long time after.

Steve checks the rear-view mirror as he buckles himself in. The backseat isn’t as big as an old Packard’s, but you’d both fit.

“That was fun,” you say.

Especially with him being little. Might be harder to squeeze back there when he’s six-two again.

“Grant?”

Of course, you could always be on top. Steve is slammed with the sudden, visceral image of your skirt raked up to your hips, the straps pulled down so he can fill his hands with your breasts, riding him to kingdom come.

“Grant?!”

He gasps as your fingers slide along his, and looks at you with eyes blown wide and dark.

“Can you breathe?”

“Yeah!” He can, when he remembers to. “I just.” _Calm down, sport. She oughta have better than you pawing at her in a car._ “I just wanted to tell you how beautiful you are.”

You squeeze his fingers and smile shyly. “You keep saying that, it’s gonna go to my head.”

Steve tucks a lock of hair behind your ears and whispers, “I hope so.”

***

It’s a short drive to your house, but long enough for your nerves to ratchet up to unbearable levels. Your hands are twisting in the fabric of your dress; it’s obvious enough that you’re worried Grant will notice, but he’s staring straight ahead, his own hands clenched on the steering wheel tight enough you think he might dent it.

You’re both quiet as the car sighs to a stop. Grant slides out of the driver’s seat and you have the wild impulse to dart toward the house without waiting for him, to escape whatever this is, to outrun the air between you, thick with possibilities.

You don’t.

You wait for him, for his hand reaching out to take yours so gently, for his eyes piercing yours with such intensity, like he’s reining in something dark and wild and dangerous. He grips you firmly as you climb the porch steps, his hand settling on your waist as you rummage for the key, stroking upward to the bare skin between your shoulders. You draw in a sharp breath as his hand reaches the back of your neck, firm and warm, and when you look at him he’s so close your nerves are on fire.

“Is this . . .?” His breath is hot against your skin. “Can I . . .?”

“Yes,” you murmur, and tremble as his lips brush your cheek. You have a moment to think, _soft_ , and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s a slow, gentle, yearning thing, this kiss. It tastes like water in the desert, like months of longing fulfilled. His lips are plush and warm, patient as he coaxes you into him. When you open to him, when his tongue slides against yours, you both still for an instant, then he makes a noise low in his throat and takes your face in his hands. They’re calloused, the skin rougher than you’d realized, but his touch is so tender, so reverent.

_This is it_ , you think, your mind gone indolent with pleasure, _this is how it should be. All this time, it’s Grant I was waiting for_.

Your hands slide under his jacket to feel his skin, hot beneath his shirt, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp as your fingernails scratch along his waist.

“Doll –” he says, but you brush your lips against his and he _growls_ and he’s not as gentle this time but it’s _so good_ ; you can’t catch your breath but who needs air? He pulls you close and you know he wants you, you _know it_ , you can feel it against you, and thank god for short men because if he moves against you just right it’ll be _right there_ , right where you need it.

A light crosses over you, a car moving slowly down the street. You freeze, and Grant slumps back away from you. You fumble the door open hurriedly and pull him inside, into the living room that’s entirely too bright. You stand there, looking at each other with identical frantic expressions, your lips ruddy and swollen, twin patches of red on his cheeks.

“So,” you say at last. “Did you want to come in?”

He barks out a laugh, and if his eyes are less hungry, there’s no shortage of fondness in them.

“I have tea,” you offer. “Or wine, if . . . or there’s –“

Grant ducks his head, shoves his hair out of his face, looks up longingly. “Can I kiss you again? Will you let me?”

_Let you? I’ll cry if you don’t._

He kisses you until your lungs burn, hands drifting slowly over every inch of exposed skin. You don’t realize you’re moving until the back of your legs bump into the sofa and you reel a little, only his grip keeping you upright. You can feel his laughter rumbling up from his chest and you pull away, mock-glaring.

“Are you trying to get me in a compromising position, sir?”

He beams at you, resting his forehead against yours. “Yes,” he says, pecking at your mouth.

“Yes,” he says, lips caressing your jaw.

“Yes,” he says, gripping your hair so he can trail kisses down your neck.

“Yes,” you say, turning and pushing him toward the sofa. He pulls you with him, and you fall together, just catching yourself on the edge of the seat, legs to the side, leaning over him. You raise yourself up, suddenly self-conscious, holding your weight off him. He doesn’t seem to notice; at this angle his face is even with your bosom and he looks . . . well, he looks like a man who’s just landed face-first in boobs, to be honest. Like this is the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to him. He feels you shifting and wraps his arms around your waist.

“Don’t go,” he tells your chest.

“I’m not, I’m just trying not to crush you.” He does look up then, pulls your face down to his and kisses you sweet and slow. His hands move lower; you feel the fabric of your dress slide against your legs, just high enough to let you move.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, and you take a shuddering breath and nod, and then his hands. His hands are on your skin, helping you shift your legs and straddle him. His hands, calloused and warm and gentle and hungry, rest inside your knees, and his mouth is devouring yours, and you sink against him and he arches, your shared gasp echoing in the space between you.

He’s toying with the strap of your dress, kissing along your shoulder, his other hand in your hair. He slides the strap down your arm, follows it with his mouth, then his breath dusts across the suddenly-revealing neckline of your dress.

You whimper, and he kisses the swell of your breast. “I could live here,” he murmurs. “Right here, right where it’s almost indecent. It’s perfect.”

He pulls your head down to his. “You’re perfect,” he whispers against your lips.

You’re floating, weightless and trembling in his arms, whispering, “I love you.” His eyes burn into yours, fiercely and ravenously, and he jerks the other strap down and mouths at your breasts through their lace coverings. You arch against him. “Grant, oh god, _Grant_ –“

It’s as though he’s been doused with icewater. His whole body jerks, and all the hunger drains from his face. His looks away, his eyes hooded.

“Grant?” Your voice comes out a little frantic, and you find the presence of mind to rein yourself in as he pulls back and scrubs his hands over his face. _No, not now. What did I do wrong? What did I do?_

_You knew this would happen. You_ knew _it. He doesn’t want you, not like that. You’re good enough to fool around with, but you’ll never be someone he could love._

“I have to – I can’t – this isn’t right,” he says, quietly, almost to himself.

You freeze, hands stiff where they fell from his body. You can’t even turn your head to look at him. When he shifts your hips to the side, you go, half-falling onto the sofa, legs tangled in your skirt. You feel emptied, hollowed-out.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The hollowness fills with rage. “Well, that’s okay, I guess. I guess it’s okay. I guess it’s good that you didn’t fuck me, _then_ tell me you didn’t feel anything for me. Glad you’re doing the right thing here.”

“Doll, no – that’s not what –“

“I _asked_ you, Grant. I _asked_ you what this was, and you said –“

“I know what I said, sweetheart. I meant it. I _do_ have . . . I have _so many_ feelings for you, but I can’t –“

“Quit lying to me, _please_.” The room goes quiet. Your chest hurts and you take a deep breath, trying to hold back your humiliated tears.

“Okay,” he says. His hand slides over yours and you jerk away. His face falls. “Right, okay.”

Grant takes a deep breath. “My name isn’t Grant Stevens. It’s Steven Grant Rogers. Steve Rogers.” You stare at him. “I’m Captain America,” he says, like he expects you to believe him. Like he believes it, himself.

“Oh my god.” You bury your face in your hands. “I _just_ asked you not to – Jesus Christ, Grant. Just say you don’t feel like that. It’s okay. I was stupid to think you would. Say you were just trying to get laid –“

“Hey, no, that’s not fair.” His voice is louder, almost commanding. “You know it’s not like that.” You _should_ know, but the shame you feel won’t let you believe it.

“What _is_ it like, Grant? How am I supposed to – You sit there and you tell me these ridiculous lies. Like, how could you _possibly_ think that’s okay.”

He flinches like you’d hit him. “I’m not lying. I was – I _was_ lying to you, and I’m sorry, but I thought they’d fix me and I could tell you then, and then it was taking so long and I should have stayed away from you but I couldn’t, and then you said you _noticed_ me and then you were wearing my jacket –“ his hands grasp yours, tighter now, so you can’t pull away. His voice is frantic “– and letting me draw you and, and no woman ever noticed me like this, not like _this_ , not except – and I knew I had to tell you but. But.”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” You can’t hold them back anymore, the tears are streaming down your face.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll prove it – “ 

“Please leave.”

“Sweetheart – “

“ _Don’t_. Don’t you _ever_.”

He squeezes your hands so tightly that you wince, then drops them abruptly and stands. His breath is harsh, not-quite whistling, and for a wild second you hope it hurts, then –

“Your inhaler,” you say into the stillness.

“I’m fine.”

He turns away, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand, and walks out the door. You clutch your hands together, willing yourself to be quiet, at least until he’s out of earshot. You listen for the sound of his feet on the steps, his car door slamming, ears straining, but there’s nothing but silence for long minutes, then –

“Lock the door.” You start violently at the sound of his voice.

“Sweet – doll – you gotta lock the door. I can’t leave till I know it’s locked.”

_Jesus fucking Christ,_ _this man._

Numb, you cross the floor and turn the lock, then throw the deadbolt for good measure. It cracks like thunder in the stillness.

You hear him sigh. “Okay. I - I . . .” then you do hear his steps, his door, hear the engine start and the sound of tires on gravel. You slide down the door, dress raking up to your thighs the way it had only a few minutes before.

And then you let yourself cry.

[1] “Get ‘Em in a Rumble Seat,” _Harry Reser’s Six Jumping Jacks, Vol. 2,_ 1928, <http://www.heptune.com/lyrics/getemina.html>. Accessed 31 July 2019.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Van Morrison – When the Leaves Come Falling Down
> 
> I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face/  
> And you were thinking 'bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace/  
> When the leaves come falling down/  
> In September, when the leaves come falling down


	8. And the leaves that are green turn to brown/ And they wither with the wind/ And they crumble in your hand.

For the first time, Steve curses the decision to group the team’s suites around a common area. He thinks it might be possible, on a Saturday night, for most of the others to be busy – Sam and Bucky and maybe Rhodey gone to the city, or Bucky and Nat out on a date, Wanda and Vision being uncomfortably . . . whatever they were, there was definitely something going on there, but Wanda’s like a kid sister and it doesn’t bear thinking about. But it was just as likely that they’d be piled onto the giant sofas watching a game, or a movie that half of them would complain about, or blatantly cheating at poker (Nat’s never been caught cheating, which is how they all know she’s doing it). Once he walked in on Natasha brushing Wanda’s hair, with this _look_ on her face that was so soft and wistful. He still thinks about it, sometimes. Nat would smother him in his sleep if she knew.

He’s moderately lucky, he thinks, because only Nat and Sam and Bucky are there tonight. And deeply unlucky, because _literally any other_ combination might have let him walk on by.

There’s no point sneaking, so he puts as much authority into his stride as he can manage.

“Hey, Tiger.”

_Oh, goddammit Nat._

“You’re back early.” Bucky sits up from his spot on the couch.

“Too early for the walk of shame.” Sam’s in the kitchen area, fiddling with the popcorn maker. He winks at Steve. “You like the dress? That was a great dress.”

“Dress like that shoulda kept you out all night, punk.”

“How’d you know what her dress – you know what, never mind. Good night.” Steve hunches his shoulders and stalks down the hallway toward his suite. He has a brief moment of irrational rage at the door – sliding, hydraulic – and his inability to slam it.

There’s whiskey in his suite, a good brand, too nice to waste drinking himself blind. He pours two fingers and bolts it, then refills the glass.

“Used to be you’d choke on a drink like that.” The traitorous door slides shut silently behind Bucky.

“Used to be we’d get rubbing alcohol mixed with caramel and call it whiskey,” Steve retorts, emptying the second glass and refilling it.

Bucky laughs. “God, it’s a wonder we lived past fifteen. You remember that time you puked till you bled?“

“Behind the Pyramid? You acted like I was gonna die.” He pours a glass for Bucky, who takes it appreciatively.

“I thought you _were_ dying. And I sent Walter . . . god, what was his name? I sent him to get Father Corby to your place for the last rites, and then I carried you home, and your ma . . . Stevie, I swear she was seven feet tall when she got mad.” Bucky crosses himself fervently.

“And they both put the fear of God into us.” Steve chuckles, a genuine smile crossing his face. His ma, God rest her, was gentle as a dove – but not when her boy was acting stupid.

“It worked, too,” Bucky says vehemently.

“You’re damned right it worked. I didn’t touch a drop for _years_ , not til that party at Kathy Bock’s place, you remember, she was doing those deco paintings for that hotel, and she had them all over the place?”

“You were sweet on her.”

“For all the good it did me.” And that brings him back to his present trouble. He stares into his glass, knowing he shouldn’t drink it. He does anyway.

Bucky takes the glass from him and sets it in the little kitchenette sink. “Didn’t work out like you planned, huh?”

Steve groans and flops face-first onto the sofa, vaguely aware of the whiskey hitting his bloodstream. He’d forgotten what this felt like. “I told her the truth. She didn’t believe me.”

“Did you wait to tell her until the worst possible time? Like when you were naked?”

“Aw geez, Buck.” Steve lifts his head, which is beginning to go cloudy, and glares at Bucky.

Bucky stares at him, eyebrow raised. “Well?”

“We weren’t naked.”

“Were you or were you not in the process of becoming naked? Was nakedness imminent?” Another glare. Bucky sighs. “ _Worst_ possible time.”

“She called me Grant.”

“You told her to.”

“Had my hands on her . . . you know, well I had them close to her y’knows. And she said she loved me, and then she called me Grant.” He lays back down, flat on the sofa, his face pressed against the cushions. “And now she hates me.”

“Doubt it.”

“Thinks I was just tryin’ to make it with her.”

“Well then she ain’t smart enough for you, Stevie. Write her off. You tried, you failed, move on to the next one.”

Steve’s voice is muffled in the cushions. Bucky grabs a fistful of hair, more or less gently, and turns his face to the side. “What was that?”

“Won’t be a next one. She’s it, Buck. She’s the only one.”

“Stevie, if you start cryin’ I swear to God . . .”

Outraged, Steve manages to roll over and sit up. “’M not _cryin’_ , you jerk.” He’s silent for a minute, staring at his hands. “She loved me like this, Bucky. She looked at me, looked at _this_ , and decided she loved me. She didn’t love Cap. She didn’t fall for the big guy with the muscles and the household name. She saw who I really am and loved _that_.”

The room is quiet. Bucky rocks on his heels, shoves his hands in his pockets, takes them out and puts them on his hips, pretending not to notice as Steve scrubs at his face.

“You love her?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I love her.”

“Alright.” Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze. “Okay, lemme talk to Sam.” He grins, and Steve finds himself relaxing. “Between the two of us, we know how to handle dames.”

“Aw, Buck.” Steve slaps Bucky’s hand away and flops back down.

“No, we got this. It’ll work. We got your back.” Bucky heads for the door, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“Hey, Buck?” Bucky pauses at the door and looks back, eyebrow raised. “You ever make time with Millie Finch?”

“Jesus, Stevie.”

***

The flowers were starting to wilt, but you weren’t ready to toss them out yet. They’d arrived a week after that disastrous night, a delicate blue and white bouquet in a pretty glass vase: purple hyacinths and blue violets, with a smattering of almond blossoms throughout.

There was no note, only a drawing folded up small and tucked into the little envelope where a note ought to go. You’d almost thrown it out in a rage, when you’d first unfolded it.

He’d drawn your hands. He’d drawn your _hands_ , intertwined.

_Hands are the hardest, he said._

You know they’re your hands, yours and something like his. One hand is small and soft, the fingers shorter, the nails a little longer, dimpled and plump and marked exactly as yours are. You carry it into the kitchen, to the trash bin, and catch sight of your own hand and those marks and those dimples, and wonder how many times he’d looked at your hands to know them so well.

(It’s your right hand, the one he held most often, the one he kissed when you called him sweet. The one he held against his chest on the bridge when he told you . . . when he lied to you the first time. Or maybe not the first time. Maybe everything was a lie.)

The other hand is wrong.

It’s a little too big, fingers not quite as slender. Just barely too much meat at the ball of the thumb, wrist too thick. You know Grant’s hands. You know how they look holding a pencil, holding a steering wheel, holding a fork. Holding your hand. Reaching toward your face. You know the tops of his hands, when they’re shoved into pockets. You know the tips of his fingers.

How does he not know his own hands as well as he knows yours? Does he imagine this too-large hand is his?

_It’s Captain America’s hand, obvi. Maybe he is . . . maybe he actually is out of his mind. I mean, he’d have to be to obsess over_ your _fat little hands._

Purple hyacinths, blue violets, almond blossoms, and a picture-perfect drawing of your hand holding someone else’s.

You folded it back up and left it on the counter by the trash. You could walk by and just knock it in without thinking, one of these days. If you felt like it.

You just haven’t felt like it. Just like you don’t feel like trashing the flowers.

You’d recognized the violets and hyacinths, but the white blossoms on the slender branches were unknown to you, so you’d snapped a picture and sent it to the florist. The next day you’d asked if this was a standard bouquet. It was not, they said. Almond blossoms were _very_ hard to come by in the fall, they said.

You’d held off for another hour before looking them up.

Purple hyacinths for sorrow. He could have just left it there, because god knew he ought to be sorry.

But then blue violets for faithfulness, almond blossoms for hope, and _how dare he_.

No call, no text, just a bouquet of lies and a drawing of the wrong hands and how _dare_ he. What did he expect out of this? Were you supposed to call _him_? “Oh hi, got the flowers, I totally forgive you toying with me for months and then ending it with a bizarre and humiliating lie; want to get lunch?”

_What the_ fuck _, Grant?_

You almost threw it all away right then. But the flowers smelled nice, and looked pretty on the table. That’s it; that’s the only reason. Certainly not any lingering feelings for the man who sent them. Certainly not out of hope that he _might_ call, _might_ come by, and explain all of this in a way that made sense.

And now they’ve wilted til the petals have gone crunchy ( _like my heart_ , your brain sighs melodramatically at you), and you’ve thrown yourself into work and are avoiding Kate and Lila like the plague, in case they ask any more questions.

(“Soooo . . .” Lila draped herself across the microfiche reader, the Tuesday after the dance. “Haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”

“I come in on Tuesdays and Thursdays; you know that,” you muttered, fiddling with the dials, looking for the article you wanted.

“Yeah, so this is my first chance to ask you!” You kept scrolling and ignoring her. “Did he get fresh? Please tell me he did. He’s good at it, right? I bet he puts a lot of effort into it.”

“He . . . yeah, he did,” you squint at the screen, trying to will away the pounding in your head. “We had a nice time, and that’s all I’m going to say. Ladies,” you said haughtily, “don’t kiss and tell.”)

The work is going faster, now that you have no distractions. You’re on track to finish by early spring; you could leave then, ahead of schedule, and be done with this whole town.

You’re thinking about that one Thursday morning, debating the merits of getting the hell out of Dodge with your crusty broken heart, versus riding out the fellowship, when Lila tells you there’s a man at the front desk who needs help with the fussy microfiche.

“I think it’s the Falcon,” she says, leaning in confidentially. You look confused. “Sam Wilson, the Falcon? We see him around town from time to time.”

“The Avengers just come into town and like – just walk around?”

“I mean, even heroes need to socialize,” she says. “I had dinner next to the Black Widow and War Machine once. She was . . .” Lila sucks her teeth and pats her heart, “ _so fine_. Used to see Captain America every now and then, but he hasn’t been spotted in a while. Probably busy helping old ladies cross the street up in Esopus.”

_what_

_the_

_shit_

He’s leaning on the desk when you walk up, tall, dark, and handsome, and flashes an amazing smile at you. “How you doing?” he asks, in a familiar voice. Your mind races. _Where . ._. “How’d that dress work for you?”

_Oh. Oh, no no no don’t you dare start crying it’s been a month for god’s sake._

“Hey, oh no, I’m sorry,” He reaches across the desk and hurriedly snatches a couple of Kleenex from the box. You take them and turn away, wiping your eyes.

“That . . . is not how I hoped this would go.”

You whip around, eyes narrowed. “What _exactly_ do you mean by that?”

He holds up his hands and takes a step back. “Peace. I just came to check on you.”

“How the . . . who are . . .” an awful thought crosses your mind. “Did Grant or, or whoever he is today send you?”

“That man would kick me off a roof if he knew I was bothering you. Look,” he held out a hand. In a daze, you shook it. “My name’s Sam Wilson, and I’m here ‘cause I think you might have some questions.” He shrugs. “And the rest of my team think like assassins and super soldiers, so I’m the closest thing you’ll get to a regular person.”

You blanch at the word ‘assassin,’ and barely register ‘super soldier.’ Your eyes focus on the badge he’s holding up as proof, an Avengers facility ID – one that looks just like the example on the ‘Valid IDs’ board for researchers. “Sam Wilson? Like, definitely _Sam Wilson_? Like actually the _Falcon_? Like the Avengers, Falcon, Sam Wilson.”

“Yeah, okay, let’s get you set down real quick.” He helps you into a chair and kneels in front of you. “Put your head between your knees and count with me. That’s it, honey.” He squeezes your hands and directs you to squeeze him back as you breathe together.

“Tell me five things you see,” he says after a minute or so, and you jerk your hands away and sit up straight.

“I’m not having a panic attack; I’m having an _extremely rational reaction_ to meeting a superhero at a _nerd museum_.”

“All museums are nerd museums,” he laughs, and stands up. “Sorry, the locals are so used to us by now; I didn’t even think about it.”

You glare at him through glassy, red-rimmed eyes. He smiles again, and holds out his hand. “Let’s do lunch.”

“You gotta try the one with the bacon-tomato jam,” Sam informs you. “It’s got a truffle aioli.”

You shrug, looking at the menu. “Truffle is so trendy now, it’s getting overused.”

He gives you a measuring look. “Okay, I can respect that.” A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “Be nice to have someone around the place who knows food. Hey, quiz time – how do you cook a steak?”

“I go to my mom’s house and have her do it for me,” you say promptly, and Sam laughs. “I think she pan-sears it and puts it in the oven. She has a rub for it.”

“Your mama’s a keeper,” he says, as you head to a table with your meals.

“Yeah, I like her,” you say, eyeing your burger and planning your angle of attack. Your hand reaches for a knife.

“If you eat that with a knife and fork, you’re off my ‘good opinions’ list.” Sam’s got his own knife pointed at you. You make a face and cut the burger in half.

“So,” you start. Sam raises his eyebrows and waits. “So.”

“So?”

“So, uh, not to be rude, but what the fuck.”

He laughs shortly. “Yeah, that’s the question. Look, most of what you want to know you’ll have to get from Steve, if you still want to talk to him, and I get it if you don’t. I’m just here to make sure you’re doing ok, and to let you know that at least some of what he told you was true.”

Your blood heats up and your lip curls. “ _Some_ of what he told me? Exactly how many lies did he tell me?”

“Well, I don’t know everything he told you.” Sam takes a bite of his burger, apparently unbothered. You’re silent as he chews, swallows, wipes his mouth. “I think he stuck as close to the truth as he could. But specifically, when that scrawny little blonde dude told you he was Steve Rogers, that was true. So if, for example, a very _large_ dude shows up at your door one afternoon, I’d prefer you not panic and shoot him.”

_I wouldn’t shoot him in panic,_ you think. _I might do it on purpose, though._

Sam’s smirking like he knows what you’re thinking. “I have a question, if that’s ok.” You nod. “Why’d you believe me and not him?”

“Lila – the other volunteer – she recognized you. And you look like . . . well, you. And you didn’t have your hand down my – anyway, when you told me, and you hadn’t been using another name for three months. Lots of reasons.”

“So you know what Cap looks like?”

“Everyone knows what Cap looks like.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam folds his napkin and fixes you with a look. “You still interested? Even if he looks different?”

“I don’t know.” He’s watching you, silent, and you plunge on. “It’s not how he looks; it never was. I mean, I did like how he looks. How he looked. Is he still . . .?”

“No. Been riding the labs like an angry little jockey to get him fixed; they got him back to good a couple weeks ago.”

You bristle a little. “He didn’t need _fixed,_ he was good the way he was.”

“Except the asthma and the blood pressure and the bench-pressing 30 pounds.”

“The bar’s 45 pounds by itself.”

Sam points a fry at you. “Bingo.” He’s got this soft kind of half-smile, like you did something right.

You fiddle with your straw and stare at the table. “I mean, I’m glad he can breathe now. I just,” you sigh, “I get why he lied to start with, I guess. But the way everything else went. That wasn’t right.”

“Yeah, Nat told him he was gonna mess it up.”

“Oh my god.” You bury your face in your hands. “Does everyone know? Does literally every Avenger know what happened?”

“Clint hasn’t visited for a couple of months, so he probably doesn’t know. Unless Nat told him.” Sam pauses, thinking. “Yeah, Nat definitely told him. Probably Tony doesn’t know.”

“You know, relationships are hard enough without it being a superheroes’ soap opera.”

“Don’t get all full of yourself; you’re not that entertaining. We have other things to do, you know. Worlds to save. Babies to kiss.”

“Kittens to rescue.”

“I don’t care what he told you, I only did that once.” You raise an eyebrow and Sam slumps back, glaring at you. It’s only moderately intimidating, probably on purpose.

“You think my fake-ass boyfriend, or whatever he was, who wouldn’t tell me his own name, would tell me all about the Falcon’s kitten habit?”

“He told you he was friends with the Falcon?” Sam looks reasonably skeptical.

“Of course not. He told me he had a friend who’d poke at him when he spent too much time in his head.” You tilt your chin up, challenging. “I assume that was you. He said I could meet you,” you get quiet, “sometime. Some other time. At some later date. I thought he . . .” your voice breaks. “Hell, maybe he _was_ embarrassed by –“

“No.” His voice is sharp. “No, he wasn’t.”

Sam looks away while you compose yourself, swiping through his phone.

“Since you tricked me into telling you about my alleged kitten habit,” He mock-glares at you for a second. “Want to see a picture?”

“Of course I want to see a picture.”

“I named him Daniel Striped Tiger. He sheds on all my clothes.”[1]

[1] As of August 11, 2019, Princess Peach (aka DST) is available for adoption! <https://www.adoptapet.com/pet/25549712-carl-junction-missouri-kitten>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon & Garfunkel – Leaves That Are Green
> 
> And the leaves that are green turn to brown/  
> And they wither with the wind/  
> And they crumble in your hand.


	9. But I miss you most of all, my darling/ When autumn leaves start to fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon omits both Infinity War and Endgame. Steve & Tony settled their differences and both apologized for their role in the split, Tony and Bucky have talked a lot, and the renegade Avengers are back in everyone’s good graces by the magic of handwaving and saying “make it so.”

You’ve been home for maybe two hours when your phone buzzes, and your heart stops when you see Grant’s name, and the picture you’d taken that day on the bridge, show up on the screen.

You turn it upside down and go outside with a book.

A few minutes later, you come back in for a drink. You flip the phone rightside-up and look at it for a long moment, then pour yourself some iced tea and go back out.

Then you need more ice.

Then you need a sweater, because it’s getting chilly these days.

Then, finally, you stomp inside and toss your book onto the table. You might as well get it over with.

**Grant xoxo _:_ I’m sorry Sam bothered you. I didn’t ask him to do that.**

You stand there with your phone in hand as you finish the glass of tea, thinking. Finally, you decide a brief answer wouldn’t hurt anything.

**You: it’s fine. he’s a nice guy**

You fiddle with your phone for a second, put it back down, and go upstairs to reorganize the bathroom cabinet. You refuse to leave until the job is done, but unfortunately it’s a small cabinet and doesn’t take very long.

_What do you even want? Do you want him to text you again? Do you want him to call? What are you even going to say to him? If you go downstairs and he hasn’t, are you gonna cry about it?_

_I mean, yeah of course I will._

The screen lights up when you touch it – his picture again.

**Captain Lie-merica: He said you might not shoot me if I came by.**

**Captain Lie-merica: :)**

**Captain Lie-merica: Sorry, that was bad. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again unless you want.**

You glare at the phone and revise your response eleven times.

**You: emphasis on might**

A few more taps, and you put it down and go to clean out the refrigerator. At least today is turning out to be productive.

**This Asshole: I deserved that. I’m sorry for how I handled everything.**

**This Asshole: If you let me, I would do anything to make it up to you.**

***

**Doll: emphasis on might**

**Steve: I deserved that. I’m sorry for how I handled everything.**

**Steve: If you let me, I would do anything to make it up to you.**

**Read 16:56**

Steve hasn’t been this close to hyperventilating since he first got the serum. It’s been almost twelve hours since his last message, and you still haven’t responded. He’s doing better, though – he’s down to checking it once an hour. He made it _two_ hours when he fell asleep around one in the morning, and then jerked awake a little after three, to see no notifications. Just the background, a picture of the two of you sitting on a blanket at an outdoor concert in Hyde Park.

So now he’s up before five a.m., debating whether his usual morning run will help or not, or be pulmonary-neutral. He’s also debating whether he can trust Sam to keep his mouth shut and just run, or if he’s gonna try to _talk about it_ like a goddamn shrink. Well, Steve can outrun that shit if he starts it.

But he can’t outrun Bucky, at least not easily.

Steve groans as he stumbles into the common area to see all three of them in various stages of alertness: Sam and Bucky _and_ Nat, lacing up shoes and tucking modest weapons into discreet places (well, that’s just Natasha, but he can’t expect any less from her). He fixes them all with a glare, and turns at the sound of a small body bumping its way down the hall. Wanda’s barely upright, rubbing her eyes, one shoe on and the other in her hand.

“Why am I awake?” she mutters, coming into the kitchen. “Natalia, whyyy?”

“You need to improve your endurance,” Natasha says, unmoved. “And I need someone to run with when the super troopers open the throttle.”

Steve puts his arm around her when she tucks herself against his side. “Steve, she’s so mean to me.”

“Are you all planning to stalk me this morning?”

“Rhodey’s in D.C.,” Sam says, “and Vision’s still charging or whatever he does.” He dodges a swipe from Wanda. “And Bruce doesn’t run.”

“Wanda doesn’t run either,” Wanda muttered, reaching for the coffee pot and squeaking when Natasha slaps her hand.

“Not before you work out. Could go badly.”

“I could just make breakfast for everyone,” Wanda offers.

“No,” Natasha insists. “You’ll fall asleep and then we’ll have nothing but cereal.”

“I like cereal.” Steve feels like he ought to intervene here, since they’re obviously doing this out of some misguided sense of comradery.

“I won’t fall asleep, and Vis can help me.”

“No!” Four horrified voices sing in chorus. Sam looks like he’s ready to defend the kitchen with his own body.

“He’s gotten a lot better,” Wanda mutters, pulling on her other shoe.

Sam doesn’t say anything while they run, and neither does anyone else. At least, no one says anything about you, or the situation. Wanda says a little bit about the cold morning air and man’s inhumanity to man, but after a mile or so she can’t say anything. Steve and Bucky run a couple of extra miles, just to open up and feel it, and when they get back to the front of the compound the others are in the middle of their cool-down stretches. Steve feels a rush of affection for them all.

“So,” Natasha says, head between her feet, “she left you on read.”

Affection cancelled.

“How – how do you know that?” Steve tries to work up a glare. Natasha just looks at him, utterly unimpressed.

“So what we’re going to do is, bring her here this afternoon and you two can have a long conversation.”

“No, you are absolutely not going to do that.” Steve isn’t surprised that Sam objects to this plan, but he _is_ surprised that Sam beat him to it.

Natasha rolls with it. “Okay, we’ll keep tabs on the historical society and when she’s there alone –“  


“Nat, no.” She smirks at him. Bucky looks a little disappointed.

“Okay, so then Wanda –“

“You are _not_ going to use Wanda against my – against anyone.” Steve glares at Wanda, who sticks her tongue out at him. “You _agreed_ to this?”

“You’re hurting,” she said simply. “And we love you.”

His heart hurts a little, but in a good way. He heads into the compound, calling back over his shoulder, “No kidnapping or stalking or mind-reading _anyone_.”

“You’re boring, Rogers!” Nat shouts after him.

“You’re maintaining safe and healthy boundaries!” Sam yells, and gives him a thumbs-up when he looks back.

Steve spends the next few hours in the staff gym rather than the Avengers’ training gym, because it’s the point farthest from his suite. When he gets back that afternoon, his phone is still laying on his nightstand.

He picks it up.

***

_Good old Joan_ , you think, settling onto the bench in front of her. _The one constant in my life. Never-changing, always steadfast._

_Still kind of crappy._

You stand and wander around the room, glancing at but not really seeing the other pieces. He isn’t late, but if he waits to be on time your nerves will have exploded and created a new dwarf planet which will then collapse upon itself and eat the universe. You sit back down and check your phone.

**You: do you have time to meet?**

**The stranger: Yes, anytime.**

**You: how about monday at the museum**

**You: later in the day, so there aren’t classes**

**The stranger: I can be there at 3, if that’s ok?**

**The stranger: Do you want me to pick you up?**

**You: 3 is fine. i’ll meet you there**

Another circuit of the room, and you sit again. You’re just about to get back up – _it’s 2:58 and I’m walking out at 3:01_ – when you hear footsteps behind you.

_It might not be him. It could be a student. Some of them are still trying to pass. It might not be him. You could look behind you, you know_.

“What’s going on with the light down by that first fury?” a deep voice asks.

You swallow hard, and your voice comes out softer than normal. “Where’s it coming from, under her skirt?”

He sits next to you, not infringing on your space but close enough that you could reach out. You don’t, and you don’t look at him. He’s not your Grant anymore, if he ever was; it won’t be the same. You didn’t lie to Sam – his appearance wasn’t what you loved, but it _was_ part of him. You can’t look at Captain America and see Grant, not yet.

But his voice is the same. You can pretend nothing has changed, as long as you don’t look.

“Got a lantern of evil in her pants, I guess,” he says, and your lips twitch humorlessly.

The first time you sat here with him, the silence was pleasant, easy. You shared a space and at least part of an opinion. Neither of you had expectations of the other. If you’d never seen him again, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Now it matters. Now _everything_ matters. This silence is filled with hurt and fear and yearning, and even though you know someone has to talk, you can’t get your mouth open. There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, and if you blink the tears will start falling and you’re afraid they’ll never stop.

Grant, Steve, sighs. His hand grips the edge of the bench, and you recognize the hand in the drawing before you look away. It’s bigger than Grant’s, but not by a lot. Grant had such long and graceful fingers, you suppose that even the peak of human performance wouldn’t demand more. There’s hair on the back of this hand, coarser and thicker than the smattering that Grant sported.

You wonder what it would feel like. Grant’s hands were calloused and a little rough – you’d assumed from holding pencils and brushes and general life events that take their toll on hands – would these hands be coarser? Or had Grant kept all the marks and scars that Steve Rogers earned? These hands would _feel_ different, but would they _touch_ differently?

“I missed you,” he says finally, and you close your eyes to block out everything but his voice.

“I missed you, too,” you whisper. You imagine that you can hear him smile.

“You know,” he clears his throat and pauses, then plunges on, “I have a bad habit of not telling the whole truth to people I care about. I tell them what I think they need to know, leave out what I think will hurt them, or what’s too hard for me to explain.” Your head bows a little; you still can’t look at him. “It cost me my home, part of my family, for almost two years. It put people in danger.”

“I knew better,” he says, voice catching. “And then I did it to you.”

You’re so tense you’re about to start vibrating. “They say the first step is admitting you have a problem,” you say, then kick yourself. None of this is a joke.

His fingers brush against yours, and you jerk away. The sound he makes is so _fragile_.

You open your eyes and try not to gape. He is, as Sam had said, a _very large dude_ , very near your personal space, his big shoulders where Grant’s head used to be, so when you turn to him you see a wall of plaid-wrapped muscle and you have to look up past a chiseled jawline ( _Grant’s jaw was sharper,_ you think) to see his eyes, and –

The tears spill over and you choke back a sob.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? What did I – ?”

You shake your head and lift your hand to his face.

“They’re your eyes,” you weep. “They’re still your eyes.”

His face crumples and his breath catches. He leans his cheek into your hand, stormy blue eyes boring into yours. “I’m still me.” His voice is low, broken. Somehow, his arms (too big) are around you, his hand (too broad) is cradling your head against his chest (too solid), but his voice, _Grant’s_ voice, is murmuring against your temple, and your mind clutches it like a lifeline. As long as he’s whispering, sighing into your ears, you can forget the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paula Cole – Autumn Leaves
> 
> But I miss you most of all, my darling/  
> When autumn leaves start to fall


	10. It's autumn in New York that brings the promise of new love/  Autumn in New York is often mingled with pain

“Captain Rogers, why is this lady – are you all right, miss?”

“I’m fine,” you say, sniffling into Steve’s shirt. “Thank you; I’m fine. This is just . . . it’s a very moving piece of art.”

The docent stares doubtfully at Joan. “Okay . . . well, take your time with . . . all of this.”

You sit up straight, wiping at your eyes. Steve hands you a handkerchief and keeps one hand on your back, not patting, just resting there like he needs to keep touching you.

“Do – do you maybe want to go somewhere else to talk? Or we can stay here, if you want. If you want, I’ll . . . I’ll do anything you want.”

“Yeah,” you sniffle. Should you give him the handkerchief back now, or wash it first? What is the etiquette of handkerchiefs? You really should have spent more time on social history. “Sorry, I thought meeting in public would stop me doing, uh, this,” you say, gesturing broadly.

“It’s okay. Um. Do you want to go home? Or to my – to the compound?”

“No!” It comes out louder than you’d intended. “My house?”

“Did you walk today? I can –“

“I drove.” You don’t seem capable of multisyllabic words. Maybe the few minutes’ drive will improve your vocabulary.

He walks you to your car, hand ever-present at the small of your back. You want to ask him to move it, to not touch you so familiarly, like he has any right to. But you also want to lean into him, to feel his arm slide around your waist the way it used to. You want to lean your head against his chest again, to feel his heart beating. Grant’s heart was always a little fast, a little strong, trip-trapping wildly against his ribs. You’d been too focused on his voice to notice before, but you imagine Steve’s would be slower, steadier, healthier. _That’s good_ , you think, _it’s good he’s not going to keel over. It’s good he’s healthier. It’s good he’s who he wants to be._

You’ve already pulled into traffic before your treacherous brain asks _and do you think he’ll still want_ you _now?_

He looks so big in your living room. It’s not a small room; this is an old house and the ceilings are ten feet and even though you know he’s not really that big, he gives off the impression that a deep breath would bust out the walls. It’s probably just the comparison to Grant; even though he’d only been here once, he’d left kind of an impression on the place.

You still think of them as two different people.

You avoid looking at his eyes. You’d prefer not to cry again.

He keeps touching you, standing too close, acting proprietary. You know it’s just . . . he did all these things as Grant, and you never objected, but he doesn’t have the right anymore. You can’t just pick up where you left off, if he even wants to.

He’s right next to you as you pour the iced tea; you almost bump him when you turn around.

“Stop _looming_ ,” you say, and he looks startled and sheepish. “Go sit down.”

He takes the sofa, the same spot where you’d ridden him with his mouth on you the last time he was here. You know the instant he realizes; the tips of his ears turn pink and he drops his gaze, hunching his shoulders a little.

You settle into the armchair and ponder how to start this. He scoots over to the side of the sofa that’s closer to the chair (and farther from the scene of the crime).

“So,” you start, faltering when he looks at you with those eyes. “How did this . . . all happen?” Of course, with his job – “I mean, what are you able to tell me?”

He considers for a moment. “Lab accident.”

“Lab accident? That happens often?”

He shrugs. “Hardly ever.” You must look as nonplussed as you feel – _Avenger-shrinking accidents ‘hardly ever’ happen? WTF?_ – because he chuckles a little. “They’re usually not . . . I mean, _this_ has never happened before.”

“Shouldn’t they have, like, kept you under wraps? It seems like sensitive information, that you can just stop being Captain America.” For the first time, you think about what could have happened to him, what someone might have done to him if the word had gotten out, and your stomach clenches with horror. “What if – “

“Hey, no,” he reaches toward you, then carefully folds his hands back into his lap. “I mean, yes, it would have been a disas – it would have been unfortunate – and yeah, I was supposed to stay in the compound, but . . . Guess I went stir-crazy. And I’d never really been to the museum before; they did an exhibit of art from the War –” you can hear the capital W “– and they asked to use a couple of my drawings, but I’d never been to just look around.”

He peeks up at you through his eyelashes, and it’s so familiar your chest hurts. “And the first time I went, I saw you.”

“And, what, you just had to meet me?” you snort, because that is patently ridiculous. “’Cause I was looking so fine in my June sweat?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “And I liked how you looked at the art.” You give him a skeptical look. “Not like you had a list, you know – Dürer: check; Rembrandt: check. You were so focused on that Hamilton, of all things. You made me want to look at it, too.”

“Well.” You’re quiet for a moment. “Sorry about that.”

“You should be,” he says, sternly.

You smile at each other for the first time since this all went to hell.

“I shouldn’t have talked to you in the first place,” he says.

Well. That’s an icy dose of reality.

He sees your face fall and starts rambling, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I didn’t think you’d be so . . . I thought it’d be safe, that I wouldn’t _need_ to talk to you again, but then you were . . . and I then I thought, well, we could be friends and then after I got fixed we might – I mean, you’d never want to be with me like _that_ , so – and Nat said you’d think I was just fooling around and she was right, and I hate when she’s right about things like that, she gets this look – but she’s been real good about it this time –“

“Wait, _this time,_ how many times have you faked your identity to hook up with women?”

“Just this once. Wait, no –“ He does grab your hands this time, before you even realize he’s moving, and he won’t let go. “I need you to believe me. Even if you don’t . . . I _never_ wanted to sleep with you. No, _shit_ , wait –“ you’re trying to tug away; this is _so much worse_ than you thought it would be. “I _did_ want to sleep with you, but not _just_ , I mean, I really liked you, I . . .”

_Did. Liked. Past tense. Once he gets his conscience clear, he’ll be long gone, and who can blame him. He’s Captain America, and you’re . . . not much, by comparison. Not anything._

But you make yourself smile, and let him hold your hands. “I know. You were right; it wasn’t fair of me to say it, that night.”

“No, I – I handled everything wrong. I can’t even imagine what you were thinking. Except - except for the parts you said. It’s just . . .” he squeezes your hands again, rubs his big thumbs over the backs of them. “You called me Grant.”

“Well. I mean.”

“No, I know. I just couldn’t – you deserved to know. I couldn’t . . . do what we were doing when I was lying to you.”

“Oh.” Your heart swells and breaks, swells and breaks again. _That’s sweet. He_ is _a good man, really. He’ll be really good to someone else._ And there goes your idiot face, leaking again. “Thank you?”

“And you said you loved me.”

_Oh, of all the fuckshit times to remember something like that._

You pull your hands away and scrub at your face. “Yeah, but. It’s not. Like, you don’t have to . . . You can just forget I said that, if you want.”

He stills, eyes shuttered. He sits back, rubs his hands along his jeans. “Heat of the moment?” he asked, sounding casual.

You could slap him for that. How dare he trivialize that moment, those words? You loved him, you _still_ love him, or love who he was when you were together.

“I just mean, I don’t expect anything from you,” you say, far more calmly than you feel. You can sense his gaze on you, and when you look up his jaw is tight and his eyes are hard. You shift uncomfortably. “So, I meant it. I did mean it, but now you’re _all of this_ again,” you gesture to him, “And I understand that you don’t feel the same and, I mean, you’ve got a lot better options now anyway,” you say, keeping your tone light.

His voice is dark and clipped. “So you think I only went for you because I didn’t have other options.”

“That’s not what I said. I know you had options.” Of course he had; Grant was so handsome, and thoughtful, and funny; didn’t he _notice_ the looks women gave him?

“That’s what it sounds like.” He stands – _this is it, this is the last time you’ll see him, and he’s angry. He’ll only remember being angry with you_.

“Then why’d you waste your time on me in the first place, when you could have been with anyone else?” It’s a cruel thing to ask, but you can’t decide if you mean to be cruel to him or to yourself.

“I wasn’t looking for anyone else,” he bites out.

“Why not?” you cry, and you both look shocked at it.

“Because I loved you,” he says quietly. “Because I love you.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Oh.” His words start to penetrate your distraught mind. “Wait, what?”

***

Steve’s heart breaks just a little. Well, a little more than it was already broken. How could you not know?

_Aside from lying to her for months and then confessing at just the worst moment – or maybe the second-worst;_ after _doing the deed would probably have been worse – and then losing your temper and almost walking out and also never actually telling her – yeah, Steve, why doesn’t she know you love her?_

“I knew I loved you that day on the bridge. I think I felt it before, but that’s when I knew.”

You’re just staring at him, tears spilling down your cheeks. Your eyes are turning red and puffy, your face has gone splotchy, and he thinks you’re so lovely.

Steve moves closer and holds out his hand, tense with worry that you won’t take it. He knows you don’t like him touching you anymore; it makes sense to him, really it does – he abused your trust and won’t get it back quickly. He can be patient . . . and then you reach for him and he stops breathing.

There’s something so fragile in your eyes, hope and disbelief together. He speaks quickly, before you can pull away. “You saw me. You looked at that scrawny little guy and saw _me_. And somehow you decided you wanted me, in spite of –“

“No. You’re wrong about that.” Steve made a quizzical noise. “I didn’t look past the little guy. I _liked_ the little guy, not in spite of anything. He’s funny, and smart, and he made me feel special.”

His heart swells. _God, this woman._ “Can you . . . would you give a big guy a chance to make you feel special?”

You’re quiet for a moment, and his chest seizes up. “Yes,” you say, slowly. “But we have to start over, or at least back up a few steps.”

He wants to shout, to dance. He wants to sweep you into his arms, but that’s probably several steps faster than what you want. “We’ll go as slow as you need. I’ll do anything to rebuild your trust.” He looks down at your hands, still entwined. _Everything_ he wants to do is too much, right now. “Can we maybe – I mean, if you don’t want to, but – do you want to sit down? We could just . . . talk, or watch tv. Just be together, like we would have before.” He worries you'll say no, you don't want him that close to you, but -

“Watch tv with my boyfriend like a normal person? I could do that.” He smiles and lets you pull him toward the sofa. You look up sharply. “Uh, I mean, if you want to be that. We don’t have to use that word.”

“We can use that word,” he says. He _loves_ that word. “If I can call you my girlfriend.”

You smile, genuinely, and Steve relaxes into the sofa cushions. “I guess you can do that.” _His girlfriend_ settles next to him, your little hand soft in his. He gives you a little squeeze, just to see if you’ll squeeze back, and his stomach wobbles when you do. He has no clue what’s on the television; his whole focus is on the warmth of your body next to his, not quite touching but closer than you’ve been in weeks.

He’s going to be bold.

No, nope, he’s going to ask first like he's got two working braincells.

“Can I put my arm around you?” he whispers, elated when you look up at him, blushing, and nod. It feels . . . different than before. You don’t fit the same, but it’s still good.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah.” But he can feel your shoulders tighten, your breath a little too shallow.

“Are you sure? You’re stiff. Like the first time I put my arm around you.”

“You mean the time you walloped me in the back of the head, or the time after that?” He hangs his head, smiling ruefully. “This _is_ the first time, though.” Steve looks confused, and you plunge ahead. “The first time you put your arm around me. Not . . . I guess not the first time you did it, but it’s the first time _I_ have had _Steve’s_ arm around me.”

He knows it’s unreasonable to feel annoyed. This _is_ the first day you met, technically, but his arms know you so well. His hands ache to hold yours. “You know I’m the same person. You know Grant and Steve are the same man.”

“I know it in my head.” He waits. “In my body, it kind of . . . feels like I’m cheating on you.” You bury your face in your hands. “I’m sorry, I know that’s ridiculous, but. It’s just.” You sit up on your knees, facing him. “I got used to how Grant – how _you_ – felt, and now it’s different. Your shoulders used to be here” – you poke him in the sternum – “and now they’re all the way up here. I can’t even put my head on your shoulder. Your arm is so big now; it doesn’t feel the same. I don’t – I don’t _mind_ it, but . . .”

Steve looks back at the tv. It’s playing football highlights, he realizes. He feels a little hollow.

“No, look at me,” you say, sounding frustrated. “We have to communicate better.” He turns his head, and you reach up, cradling his face in your hands. “I think you’ve got this idea that I was _settling_ for you, before, and I ought to jump into your arms now. Like it was ‘well, bummer, but at least he’s got a good personality.’ I was attracted to you. I thought you were handsome the first time I saw you. I loved your face, I was infatuated with your hands, I thought your shoulders were perfect. And the way you felt against me” – your cheeks are turning an alarming shade, but Steve’s not going to stop you now – “was _so good_ , I thought it about it all the time. At _really_ inappropriate times. I _wanted_ you. So it’s going to take a minute for me to adjust.”

His heart stopped a few sentences ago. He’s already died, and it was worth it to hear you say these things. You’re staring at him, eyes wide, chest heaving distractingly.

“Then you’d better move back, sweetheart.” You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Because I’m about to kiss you, and I don’t think you’re ready–“

You surge forward. It’s not a careful, decorous kiss; you half-miss his mouth and have to recalibrate, but then his hands slide up into your hair and guide you, and your lips part, and Steve is very definitely alive. Breathless, and about to have a heart attack, but more alive than he’s felt since . . . _since the last time you had her on this sofa. Try not to screw it up._

Your hands slip down to his chest and he falls backwards, pulling you on top of him with a little squeal. One hand cradles the back of your head; the other wraps around your waist, holding you against him. He’s never going to let you up. You’re going to live here, in his arms. He’ll just carry you wherever you need to go, and then you’ll have to admit the benefits of him being re-serumed.

He’s still drifting on a cloud of ridiculous daydreams when the kiss ends, and you lay your head on his chest. He’s winding your hair through his fingers, and feels you make a questioning sound in your throat.

“Hmm?” That’s it; he’s not capable of words.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” you whisper. “I thought it would slow down now that you’re big . . . it was always so fast before, too.”

“Hmm.” He squeezes you tightly, feels your own heart race. “It’s just you. Always pounds for you.”

“Oh,” you say. “Well, then.” You shift against him, nuzzling his jaw, and he can imagine your cheeks heating up.

“So does this mean you’ve adjusted already?” he asks hopefully, and you chuckle.

“Not entirely. But I’ll get there.” His arms tighten around you and you sigh contentedly. “Probably need more kisses.”

“I can do that,” he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong – Autumn in New York
> 
> It's autumn in New York that brings the promise of new love/   
> Autumn in New York is often mingled with pain


	11. Because I’m still in love with you/ I want to see you dance again/ Because I’m still in love with you/ On this harvest moon

_I’m getting pretty good at this talking-to-women thing_ , Steve thinks. Of course, he’s been getting a lot of practice. There’s this whole re-getting-to-know-you phase going on, where he tells the truth about stuff that he might have fudged a bit, before.

“I _knew_ it,” your eyes narrow at him, and he shrugs. “I should have called you on it then. Brooklyn Heights was affluent by the 70s and 80s, and there were lots of parks – the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, Cadman Plaza Park . . .”

“I remember when Cadman Plaza opened,” Steve says, “I used to go there and draw studies of the post office across the street.[1] But I was grown when it opened; when I was a kid it a was a mess of buildings that needed tearing down. Wait,” he says, giving you a skeptical look, “how do you even know all that?”

“From my extensive research watching reruns of the Patty Duke Show,” you say promptly. “And then when you didn’t make any sense, I looked up census data.”

He is vaguely, irrationally annoyed that you’d checked up on him, but it’s overridden by the fact that he _had_ been lying, apparently poorly, and by the fact that you look awfully proud of yourself and it’s adorable. He smiles at you, and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “You’re a nerd,” he says, fondly.

You wrinkle your nose at him. “What’s the old-timey word for that?”

“Egghead.” He skips out of your reach, laughing as you swat at him. “You asked!”

“Great; if we’d met back in the day you’d have called me an egghead,” you mutter, but there’s a smile dancing around your lips, so he leans in and kisses your cheek.

“Nah, I’d have told everyone you were a real buttercup,” he whispers, gratified when you start to blush.

“Is that the same thing as a pretty dame?” you ask, then “stop that; they’ll be here any minute.”

He steps back, but not very far. “I hate to break it to you, but they already know you’re my girl. And no, it’s better. A buttercup is pretty _and_ sweet. The kind of girl –”

“The kinda gal who’ll let you take her on a walk in the park when you’re broke and never complain that it’s not a real date.” Bucky’s voice broke in, as he and Natasha walked up. He had a bag in one hand and a picker pole in the other.

“The kind who only dates around a little, and doesn’t compare you to her other guys,” Steve says, remembering some of Bucky’s youthful complaints.

“The kind who’ll go parking with you, but not _all the way_ parking.” Bucky waggles his eyebrows at Natasha, who rolls her eyes and plants herself at your side, clearly forming a united front against the men. “And doesn’t laugh at you when you’re not real good at it yet.”

“You told me you were born good at it, Barnes,” Natasha says, then looks at you. “Thank god you’re here. When they get into old fogey mode, it’s hard to pull them out by myself.”

Steve watches you smile shyly and feels a rush of gratitude toward Natasha. She hadn’t once held the mess he’d made over his head, and she – and Sam, and Bucky (well, not so much Bucky; all of Bucky’s ideas were seventy years out of date, but he was good for commiseration) – had definitely helped dig him out. He’d goaded her, once, before you’d started talking to him again, had defiantly blocked her path and asked “aren’t you gonna say it?” But she’d just patted his cheek and answered, “do I need to?” and he’d deflated so fast she’d given him a brusque hug and then shoved him out of the way.

“I might not make a good ally,” you say. “Old-fogey mode is still new and interesting to me.”

“Riiight.” Natasha gives him an appraising look. “So, how was he at pretending to be young and hip?”

You look at Steve, baffled. “Were you _trying_ to act hip?”

He clutches his chest dramatically and looks hurt. “Oh, I got a mouthy dame, huh?”

“Rude!” you exclaim.

Natasha crosses her arms. “Yeah, Rogers; you talk to your girlfriend like that?”

_My girlfriend, my girlfriend_ , his brain sings. He nudges Bucky. “Hey pal, some help here?”

Bucky busies himself attaching the bag to the picking pole. “You dug this hole yourself, punk.” He winks at Natasha. “I have learned never to disagree with a lady.”

She snorts. “That’s a lie, Barnes.”

“Yes it is.” He looks pointedly at Steve. “See?”

Natasha grabs another bag out of Steve’s hands and looks expectantly at you. “So how does this go, anyway?”

You look incredulously around the circle. “Have none of you gone apple-picking before? Steve, you said you all loved this place.”

“I, ah. I love the _idea_ of this place. And I really do love apple pie.” In truth, you’d just looked so excited when you suggested it that he’d agreed immediately, and then volunteered Nat and Bucky as a double-date. It seemed like a low-stakes way to introduce you to his team, since they’d be too busy to interrogate you. Much. Probably.

“City slickers,” you mutter, but let him take your hand and lead you into the orchard.

***

You and Natasha concentrate on the lower-hanging fruit while Steve and Bucky manhandle the picker poles with more enthusiasm than skill. First they race to see who can get more apples (Bucky), then they compete to reach the best-looking first (Steve, who plays dirty). After Steve “accidentally” bangs a half-full bag off Bucky’s head, you try to intervene.

“Don’t you Depression types know you shouldn’t waste food?” They turn toward you, identical scowls of he-started-it on their faces. “There are starving kids!”

“Yeah, don’t bruise my apples, Barnes,” Natasha calls, laughing, and it sounds . . . well, a little dirty, to be honest. From the look Bucky gives her, you think it was meant to be.

“Fine,” Bucky says. “You win this tree, Stevie. I’m gonna squire both these lovely ladies to the concession stand.”

You hear Steve mutter something that sounds like “the hell you are,” and he speeds up to walk beside you. He’s got the bag of apples in one hand and the picker in the other, and looks momentarily stymied, until you slip your arm through his. You notice that Natasha and Bucky split the load, each carrying one item in their left hands. You look up at Steve and he rolls his eyes. “Assassins,” he whispers.

_Oh, yeah. Everyone here can kill you with their pinky. Probably their pinky_ toe _. But, of course,_ you _can wield an absolutely devastating red pen._

_Stop that. He likes you the way you are. He said so._

_Grant’s said a lot of things, hasn’t he?_

_Oh, shut up._

Things have been going so well between you, but there’s a part of you that still feels vulnerable. Some of that is natural in any relationship and might never go away entirely, but part of it is . . . the situation.

And not even the Grant situation, although that has made you cautious. You’ve almost managed to stop thinking of him as Grant; you only slipped up a couple of times face-to-face. You know it bothered him, though, by how he’d so carefully not react when you did. You tried to train yourself out of it by saying his name out loud when he wasn’t around: “I’m gonna call Steve,” you’d say when you were alone; “Going to meet Steve,” you’d say to yourself, heading to your car. And saying it more than a few times when you were extra alone. You haven’t said the wrong name in a couple of weeks, and the soft look in his eyes when you whisper in his ear makes it worth the effort.

But sometimes your brain still pokes at his words, wanting to check up on them just in case. In case he’s lying about something else. In case something isn’t right, and you just haven’t figured it out yet.

_In case he doesn’t really want you._

. . . yeah. Which is stupid, because he’s been nothing but thoughtful and patient – really incredibly patient – since you agreed to try again. He’s answered all your questions, even if it made you angry again. He’s brought his friends around, starting with a more formal introduction to Sam, who had _so many_ new kitten videos. He hasn’t re-met yours, but only because you’re both uncertain as to how you can make that happen without giving away any secrets. He lets you set the pace when you’re alone, keeps his hands confined to PG-13 zones, and goes home looking like he might not make it to a cold shower.

So it’s not anything that he’s doing. It’s your problem – your inability to just open up and let him love you the way he so obviously wants to.

Right now he wants to give you a perfect October afternoon, with apple-picking in flannel shirts and apple-cider doughnuts and possibly pie-making when you get home. He promised to help peel the apples. It’s nauseatingly domestic, not really what you expected superheroes to do when they’re temporarily out of villains to fight.

But damn, he looks good in flannel.

The four of you squeeze into a picnic table with a tray piled high with doughnuts and mugs of mulled cider. Natasha’s friendly-but-still-wary spy face breaks for just an instant when she bites into the first doughnut, still hot from the fryer and covered in cinnamon-sugar – the corners of her eyes turn up and you swear her pupils dilate.

Bucky is a lot more effusive. Borderline pornographic. “Oh Jesus,” he says around a mouthful of hot, sweet dough. “Oh god. Oh –“

“If you start naming off saints, I’m leaving,” Steve threatens, then takes a bite. “Ohh god.”

“See?!” Bucky looks vindicated.

So maybe everyone, even superheroes, are suckers for fried dough.

“So,” you say after you wash down a bite with the cider. “Did you two attack each other with fruit when you were kids, or is that a new thing?”

“That’s a new tactic we’re testing,” Bucky says. “Non-lethal force.” He takes two more doughnuts from the pile while Natasha shakes her head, a fond expression on her face. “We didn’t fight much as kids.”

“Each other,” Steve adds.

“Each other,” Bucky agrees, then grins so wickedly you know whatever he says next is going to be good. “Except that one time when I tried to get you to _stop_ fightin’.”

Steve buries his face in his hands.

“You – wait, you fought him because he didn’t want you to fight?” You tug on Steve’s arm, trying to pry his hand away from his face. “You have to tell me about this.”

“Steve was a real firecracker back in the day,” Bucky said. “You know – ‘I’ll whup you, I’ll whup your brother, I’ll whup myself’ – that was Stevie.”

“I did that last one a lot,” Steve admitted sheepishly.

“So we were, what, fourteen-fifteen, lotta guys fight at that age, you got all the hormones and nothin’ makes sense and you just wanna punch something.” Bucky started on his fourth doughnut. “And Steve had fifty pounds of adolescent rage packed down into a three-pound powder keg.”

“You said you never started fights,” you say, eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t!” Steve protests while Bucky whoops with laughter. “Hey, you’re makin’ me look bad in front of my girl.”

“Nah, Steve’s right, he didn’t technically ‘start’ fights,” Bucky makes air quotes still holding a doughnut. You’ve lost count. “He’d just wait for some chump to step out of line and then he’d bicker at him until the guy busted him up.”

“I could usually duck the first one,” Steve is obviously trying to defend himself, but from the look you all give him, it’s not working. “So Bucky told me to stop, he’s not gonna step in and rescue me anymore – which really made me see red –“

“And the little punk throws a punch at _me_!” Bucky says, still outraged after decades. Natasha looks _delighted_.

“It connected, too.” Steve sounds awfully proud of himself, but he _had_ told you that Bucky used to be a boxing champ. And young Steve very much . . . wasn’t.

“Yeah, you were quick as a weasel when a fight started,” Bucky muttered. “Two minutes in and you’d be wheezing like a kettle.”

“So . . . I mean obviously Bucky won,” you say, and shrug apologetically when Steve gives you the most betrayed look and Bucky hoots.

“Kept my hand on his head while he swung at me until he tired out. He didn’t speak to me for two days.”

You stare at Bucky as the scene takes form in your head, then burst into bone-shaking laughter. When you get yourself back under control, Natasha is dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, Bucky is looking supremely self-satisfied, and Steve is red from the tips of his ears down to the hollow of his throat. _And probably lower_ , you think, _if you could see it_.

You rub his back, running your fingers up to scratch at the nape of his neck. He turns to you, a little dazed, and you whisper, “I’m glad you survived all of that.” As he starts to smile, you add, “Well, it sounds like mostly you survived yourself.”

He slips an arm around you, and you notice the glint in his eyes just before he starts to tickle you.

All told, you fill three bags: two with pie and preserve apples and one with what your grandpa would have called “good eatin’ apples.” You and Natasha concentrate on gathering the best Winesaps for pie while the guys continue their non-lethal weapons research.

“Bet you a pie Bucky pinches him with that picker thing,” Natasha mutters. You consider it; Steve is quick and has great reflexes, but he’s also too trusting – as you watch, he turns his back and present a very tempting target.

“You bake?” you ask, trying not to sound surprised.

“I buy,” she says. “But I’m also not going to lose.” She’s right; Bucky immediately takes the bait and Steve hollers loud enough that the orchard attendant peeks over, frowning.

“One pie,” you agree. “Delivered by Steve no later than Wednesday.”

“You could always come to the compound and bake it there,” she suggests, watching Steve knock Bucky on his ass. “We have a great kitchen and Sam’s the only one who uses it regularly.” She catches your guarded expression. “It’s not that I don’t trust Steve not to eat it on the way . . . but I don’t.”

“I’m not sure Steve’s ready for me to be in his space like that,” you say slowly. “We don’t want to rush things this time.”

She frowns, and the look she gives you wouldn’t be out of place on any sister worrying that her bonehead brother is getting strung along. “It’s my understanding that Steve is ready for you to be anywhere that _you_ want to be. This is your pace, isn’t it?”

Of course it is.

She watches your face for a moment, then sighs. “I’m not going to make excuses for Steve; he’s a grown man and he can make his own terrible decisions. But, I guess, he perhaps didn’t receive the best advice from . . . certain of his associates.” You side-eye her. “Including me. But his own ideas were, and I really want to stress this, appalling. He wanted to step back, after that time at the barbeque place. He wanted to wait until he got back to his fighting weight, then . . . I don’t even know, maybe just show up at your door and sweep you off your feet?”

“Ooh, he really has _no_ self-preservation instincts, does he?” Natasha laughs and shakes her head. “Wait, how did you know about the – you know what, never mind.“ The look she gives you is unimpressed and unashamed.

“I honestly didn’t think he’d tell you. Not while he was still small. He was very sensitive about that, you know.” She’s not _looking_ at you, but she’s definitely _watching_ you while she talks.

“I know that now,” you say. “It didn’t register then. It’s just not . . . I wonder if he’d grown up later, if it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. He’d have had better medicine, not had to be so careful all the time. He would have gotten more attention from girls, I think.”

“But then he wouldn’t be Steve. Not our Steve.”

Your head feels so light at the thought of _our Steve_ , you don’t even notice Natasha watching you approvingly.

“So I do maybe owe you a small apology,” she says. “I also may have contributed to the way it shook out.” You raise an eyebrow and wait. “The dance was my idea,” she says, and shrugs. “I thought it would be too much for Steve to resist. He always talked about missing his dance with – you know about Peggy, right?”

She knows you do, or she wouldn’t have mentioned it. The layers of meaning in everything this woman says could make your head spin. Steve had told you about Peggy early on, spending the whole time split between studying his own hands and your eyes, watching for any sign of . . . jealousy, maybe? Disapproval? Impatience? And then sighing with such relief it almost made you cry, when you wrapped your arms around him and whispered, “I’m glad you had more time with her, after you came back. She sounds incredible.”

How could you be jealous of his love for Peggy, when she’d had so much to do with shaping the man he is? You would have enjoyed getting to know her.

The thing with Sharon is a little weird, though, you’re not gonna lie about that.

“You told Steve to buy seven hours of dance tickets?” you ask.

“No, I – _seven hours_?” For the first time today, Natasha looks truly surprised. “Go big or go home, I guess. Or go big, screw it up, and then go home. No,” she says, “I may have used official channels to suggest to the fundraising committee that the Stark Foundation would be very generous if they’d change it up from the usual holiday home tours and Victorian tea parties, and then suggested a taxi dance would be just the new and semi-scandalous kind of thing Tony wanted to see.”

“Well, that worked. And the foundation definitely came through.”

She smirks, gratified. “Yeah, when I told Pepper about it she laughed till she choked and told accounting to cut a check right then.”

_So_ everyone _everyone knows all about this situation, even the ones who aren’t Avengers_ , you think with mounting horror.

Natasha looks at you like she knows exactly what you’re thinking, and pats your arm. “I didn’t tell her why. She just agreed that Tony would bust a gut if he knew about it.”

“Why a taxi dance, though?”

“Steve and James were talking about petting parties, but I didn’t think I could push that one through.”

_No, definitely not._ Your mind reels at the thought of Madame President chaperoning a bunch of couples _in_ _flagrante_ to various degrees, and then at the idea of _Steve_ attending one. And then at the idea of _you and Steve_ attending one, and you know, you’ve never really had that kink but it sounds _hot_. Then you wonder if Steve had ever been to a taxi before, if he’d paid for a woman to let that awkward, kind, stubborn boy put his arms around her for three minutes. At least he would have been polite about it.

You’re lost in thought, not paying attention, when your ankle turns on the gravel path and down you go.

You hear Natasha call out for Steve, and immediately follow her with “No, I’m fine!” You prod at your ankle; it’s tender, but no worse than that, and the biggest injury is to your pride. Steve skids on the gravel and kneels down beside you.

“Is it broken?” he asks, gingerly lifting your foot onto his thigh. His touch is so careful, the pads of his fingers pressing gently into your flesh. He’s got a callous on the inside of his middle finger, you realize, where he holds his pencils. No – you don’t _realize_ , you _remember_. You used to feel it when Grant took your hand. It’s the same hand, the same touch, the same man. He hasn't changed, not really; it's just taken you too long to understand.

“No, it’s okay. I just turned it, I think.” He’s got a look on his face that makes you worry about ambulances, medi-vacs, para-rescues, and you touch his cheek. “Steve, I’m fine. Help me up and I can probably walk on it.”

He carefully manipulates the joint, watching your face for pain. His face relaxes. “Not broken,” he says, “but could be a nasty sprain. You’re absolutely not walking on it.” He turns his face and kisses your palm. “Put your arms around my neck.”

You panic a little. “No, I can walk. I want to walk.”

“I’m not letting you walk, c’mon.” His arm slips under your knees.

“You can’t stop me,” you insist, in the face of all available evidence. Steve rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, don’t pick me up – you’ll hurt yourself!” He gives you an incredulous look and lifts you bridal-style.

Natasha picks up your bag of apples. “You know he can toss a motorcycle like it’s a football, right?” she asks, and your face heats up.

Steve settles you in his arms, his lips brushing your forehead. “Sweetheart, relax. You weigh nothing.” He smiles brightly as your arms slip around his neck. “You know I’ve always got you.”

And in this moment, you do know: this awkward, kind, stubborn man has you.

[1] It’s gorgeous: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cadman_Plaza#/media/File:Brooklyn_Post_Office_0321071421a.jpg> Accessed 11 July 2019.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neil Young – Harvest Moon
> 
> Because I’m still in love with you/  
> I want to see you dance again/  
> Because I’m still in love with you/  
> On this harvest moon


	12. I can not only see November Skies/ I see you everywhere, everywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the change in rating!

“Captain Rogers, I do believe this counts as parking.”

“Nah, this isn’t parking.” Steve turns the motor off and unbuckles his seat belt.

“We’re parked, in an isolated spot with a romantic view, and,” you watch him fiddle with the radio, “you’re turning on slow jams.”

“You’re just gonna put your head on my shoulder and look at the moon on the river. That’s not even first base.” He grins and reaches for you. “Gotta get to second for it to count as parking.”

“I think you’re mixing metaphors.” He tugs you closer, and you lay your head against his chest. “Or not metaphors, but you know.”

“Yeah.” He runs his fingers through your hair. “We don’t have to, though, if you really don’t want to.”

“Don’t you dare start this car; I’m just getting comfortable.” You smile against his shirt as you feel his lips brush your forehead.

The view really is beautiful – it’s dark enough that you can see the lights on the western bank, and still early enough that there are some boats out, piloted by people who apparently can’t feel the cold. You shiver a little; without the heater running, the autumn chill is seeping in and your dress only goes to your knees.

“Cold?” Steve reaches into the backseat and retrieves a plaid blanket, soft like fleece.

“You planned this,” you say, only semi-accusingly, because the blanket is incredibly cozy, and Steve is like a furnace when he tucks you up against him.

His lips tickle your ear as he whispers, “I did.”

“You have designs on my virtue,” you whisper back as you cuddle into him.

“I . . . might have a couple of designs,” he admits.

You tilt your head up and peck his chin. “I guess that’s okay.”

It’s been a good couple of weeks since the orchard. Steve took you to the compound a few days later, despite your protests that you could drive yourself, on a day when he promised the place wouldn’t be packed. ‘Packed,’ you gathered, meant ‘with Tony Stark,’ because it seemed like almost everyone else was there. Sam and Bucky were in the common area playing cards with Colonel Rhodes and Dr. Banner when you walked in, and were far too busy talking smack to pay you much attention.

After some thought, you decided they’d done it that way on purpose, to set you at ease.

You and Steve were halfway through the apples when Natasha entered with a young woman in tow. She – Wanda – volunteered her services with a paring knife while Natasha surveyed the card players. “He’s cheating,” she said, jerking her chin at Bucky, who looked betrayed.

“Nat,” he said, shaking his head. “Doll . . . “ while Sam threw his cards down, shouting “I knew it!”

In all, it was only slightly nerve-wracking, and it turns out that fresh pies (you’d done the math, included the appetites of multiple super-soldiers and a Hulk, and made three) are the way to anyone’s heart. Except the Vision’s, who didn’t eat. Plus you got to hold Daniel Striped Tiger.

You and Steve have seen each other almost every day, and you talk on the days you can’t be together. With each new day, you feel more comfortable with him, with the new him, or the old him. The old-new him. He’s opening up, sharing as much as he can with you; and you trust that what he doesn’t share is a matter of can’t, not won’t. He tells you his anxieties, his self-doubts, how he worried that his only real worth lay in being the Captain, how lost he felt when he couldn’t be that anymore. How you made him feel valued for himself.

He hasn’t said he loves you since the day you met old-new him. Sometimes it feels like he might, like he’s about to. When he pulls you into his lap, hands buried in your hair, kissing you breathless. When he’s laying on your sofa, head in your lap, looking up at you with such softness in his eyes. When you’re dancing, his cheek pressed against your hair. When he kisses you goodnight. But then something else creeps into his eyes, something guarded and forlorn, and he sighs deeply and says nothing.

You watch the lights on the water, the full moon reflected on the waves, and feel his lips ghost over your forehead. You turn your mouth up to his, feel his heart race under your palm. The kiss deepens, his tongue pressing against yours, retreating, and penetrating again; his hand moves up, thumb brushing the underside of your breast and sending a rush of heat through your body.

“Wait,” you say, sitting up. “I need to say something.”

Steve looks at you, brow furrowed.

“Steven Grant Rogers.” He swallows hard, like he’s not sure what you’re going to say and isn’t optimistic about it, either.

You caress his cheek, lifting his face to yours. “I love you. I love all of you. I love every version of you.” Steve looks up at you, eyes shining. “Now c’mere and kiss me some more.”

It’s slow and sweet, his lips caressing yours. He holds you so carefully, like spun glass, the tips of his fingers tracing along your cheek. He pulls back, rests his forehead against yours, and gazes into your eyes.

“I thought you might not say it again, that I’d –“ he takes a deep breath and kisses you again gently. “I love you.”

You stay that way for a few minutes or maybe a few years, trading tender kisses and soft touches and hushed words, barely more than breaths. His warmth surrounds you as he holds you tightly, and your fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, baring more of his skin to your attention. You find a spot just below his collarbone, a place usually hidden by his clothing, and suck until he gasps, arching.

“Jesus, doll.” He looks shocked, eyes wide and dark. His hand slides into your hair, gripping you firmly and exposing the curve of your neck as he bends toward you.

“No, not there.” You push at his chest – he’s like a boulder – and tug down the bodice of your dress. _Right here where it’s almost indecent_ , he’d said long ago, _it’s perfect_ , and he looks at you hungrily before his mouth fastens over you and _oh. Oh, god._ Those big hands come up to cup your breasts, raise them to his lips like an offering. Pleasure shoots through your body as his mouth travels across your skin wildly, desperately, and your cry shatters the night as he bites down and marks you as his.

Then his arms are around you, holding you while you tremble against him, his eyes frantically seeking yours. “Sweetheart? Did I – I’m sorry –“

You silence him with your lips and bring his hand back to your breast. “Can you feel my heart?” you whisper. He nods, breathing faster. “You did that.” The noise he makes is so hungry, a rumble from deep in his throat, and he bends his head back to the task of thrilling you.

You reach behind your back, fumbling for the zipper of your dress, anxious to bare more of yourself to his mouth, his hands. He stills and pulls your hands back down, kissing your palms. “Are you sure?” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “We’re definitely parking now.”

“Oh, dear.” You bite your lip, noting the ways his eyes dart to your mouth. “I can’t go all-the-way parking with you; it’ll just _ruin_ my reputation.” You kiss him, giggling against his mouth. “And then I can’t be your buttercup.”

“You’ll always be my buttercup,” he says, kissing below your ear.

“And you’re my huckleberry?”

He huffs out a laugh, hot against your skin, and looks up. “What on earth?”

“Okay, so there’s a gap in your pop-culture knowledge we need to fill.” His lips ghost over your jaw. “Later.”

“Yes, later,” he agrees. “For now . . . how does third base sound?”

Your head is spinning as his mouth moves lower. “What’s third base?”

He growls against your skin. “Third base is when I make you scream my name.” The thought of it sends lightning down your spine; before you can react, he’s hauling you across the seat into his lap, guiding you to lean back against his chest, his arms like iron bands around you. He tilts your head back and kisses you breathless, one hand sliding down your dress as far as it can go, bunching the fabric to draw it up your thighs.

“Let me,” he whispers.

You obey. You wouldn’t dream of doing anything else in this moment. Steve’s hands slip down to the soft exposed flesh of your thighs. He toys with the hem of your dress, then glides beneath. His breath hitches – you can feel the catch where you’re pressed against his chest, feel the flutter of his eyelashes against your cheek as his eyes slip closed. His fingertips skim over you, moving higher, tracing patterns against your skin, the crease of your thigh, but not _there_ , not where you need him. He chuckles when you whine in frustration, the sound reverberating through your body. Your hips swivel, chasing the relief of his hand, and his other arm tightens around your waist.

“Shh . . . be patient, sweetheart.” He holds you firmly as you whimper, fingers playing along your skin until you can feel moisture gathering, dripping between your lips.

Steve moves one finger over your center, just one, so lightly it’s barely more than a whisper, and you nearly come apart. Instantly, he withdraws, moving down to squeeze your buttocks and murmur soothingly into your ear.

Then he’s back, pressing more firmly this time, and you arch against his hand. His fingers scratch along the damp fabric covering your center, then he rubs them together. “Is this for me?” he asks, sounding awed, and you nod frantically. He presses his cheek to yours, watching his hand move between your legs, petting you so languidly, so softly.

His fingers slip beneath your panties, trace your seam, gather the slickness there. You can see it glisten on his fingertips in the moonlight when he pushes the fabric aside, exposing you to his gaze. His heart is pounding so hard against your back; when you glance up at him he’s biting his lip, eyes slightly dazed.

“Steve,” you whimper. “Baby, please.” You thrust against his fingertips, trying to create more friction, trying to make him move; he watches your effort with eyes dark and dangerous, holding still. You can feel him stiffening beneath you but nothing gives you relief, he won’t help you, won’t give you what you need. Your cry of frustration rings out: “God – Steve – _fuck_!”

He pulls his hand back and you are. _literally_. going to kill him. then slides it under your leg, lifting, whispering “open your legs, sweetheart,” spreading you wide for him. The arm around your waist descends, petting the mound of your pussy, parting your lips. He settles your leg in the crook of his elbow, giving him both hands to explore with . . . and then he does. One long finger slides around your entrance and dips inside, shallow, then deeper, stretching you slowly, carefully, while his other hand torments your clit with light, teasing touches. “Is this good?” he asks – you think it’s him – it’s more growl than voice, then – “do you need more, doll? Are you sure? You’re so tight, honey; can you take it?” – plunging deeper, harder. A sob tears from your throat when he adds another finger, then he _curls_ them inside you and pulls back and _fuck_ , _fuck, fuck me, god, Steve, please fuck me, baby please I need it_ and he’s pressing down on your clit and pressing up inside you and groaning loud and hard against your neck and the world goes dark and fiery and your thighs clamp down on his hands and you ride them both into oblivion.

He’s still touching you when you return, stroking your quivering thighs, nuzzling your face. You’re trembling against him, tiny involuntarily cries still falling from your lips. He runs a finger along your slit and you hiss, trying to squirm away.

His breath is warm against your cheek as he chuckles. “No more? But I thought you _needed it._ ”

_Oh geez I said that out loud. I said all of that out loud._

He dips inside you one last time, making you squeal involuntarily, then brings his fingers to his lips and _licks_ them. You still can’t feel your legs, but a burst of heat shoots through you at the sight. Then, like a switch has been thrown, he carefully smooths your dress back down and wraps his arms around you, kissing your forehead. You can’t see very well with just the moonlight, but you think there’s a tinge of pink in his cheeks.

His voice is soft, almost back to normal. “Been thinking about that for a while.”

“Mm?” Your head is still a little hazy. “How long?”

“What day did we meet?” he asks, and you laugh.

“Such a perv.” Memories of how he touched you flood your mind. “For real, you are a _dirty tease._ What would America think if they knew?”

“Me?” Steve looks affronted. “I couldn’t believe the filth coming out of my girl’s mouth. I don’t like to hear that kind of language from ladies,” he says sternly.

You stare at him incredulously. “Are you serious?”

His blue eyes darken; he reaches out to take your chin in your hand, then quickly pecks your lips. “Nope.”

“Ugh, you dork.” You start to squirm out of his lap; his arms clench around you as he draws a sharp breath. _Oh_.

“Are you okay, Steve?” You ask, innocently, then shift around to face him and watch his eyes narrow. “Did you pull something?” Squirming just a little, feeling the hard line of him twitch under your ass, you learn close to his ear. “When you were making me come?”

“ _Christ_.”

“Language, Stevie!” You scoot into the passenger seat and slide a hand up his thigh. “Something you need help with?” you ask, eyes wide, squeezing him gently. “Anything I can take care of?”

“You don’t have to,” he says, but he’s watching you intently from half-open eyes.

Your hand slips higher, _almost_ brushing against an impressive bulge. His breath comes faster. “Do you want me to?” You rise up on your knees and kiss his throat, run your fingers over the mark you gave him. “Do you want me to touch you? I can,” your hand moves lower, fingers playing along the waistband of his jeans, “if you ask me to.”

His lets his breath out all at once – “ _Please.”_

Watching his eyes, you flick open the button, run your knuckles down the length of his zipper. He jerks beneath you, then arches as you move back up, more firmly this time. Your tongue darts out, tasting your mark on him, then you take hold of him and squeeze slowly, firmly, at the same time you suck. The noise that rises from his throat is primal, visceral. His hands flex; he reaches for you, then rests them on his knees with visible effort.

“Don’t you want to touch me, Steve?” you whisper against his skin.

His breath is fast, his voice higher. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

_Precious man_. “You won’t.” You squeeze again and revel in his strangled sound. “I trust you. Besides –“ another squeeze, then you start rubbing and he whimpers “– you’ll have to touch me later.” You take the tender lobe of his earl between your teeth and nibble gently. “When you take me home and _fuck me_.”

“ _Jesus_ , doll.” He turns his head and captures your mouth with his. His hips are moving in time with your hand, thrusting against your palm. You can feel his rhythm change; he bucks hard – and you pull your hand away. He’s rigid for a second, not breathing, the vein in his neck throbbing with his pulse.

When he relaxes, you stroke his thigh. “Did you?”

“No,” he groans, then moves your hand back to where he needs your attention. “ _Please_ , honey.”

“Hmm.” Your touch is too light to grant him any release. You could make him pay, draw it out of him like he did to you. You could test his self-control, bring him to the brink again and again and see if he can keep from falling.

Or.

The sound of his zipper is so loud, it almost drowns out his moan of relief. He’s quick to lift his hips and help you shimmy his jeans down his thighs – very nice thighs, muscled and warm and covered in a soft fuzz. You could spend some time on those thighs, one day soon – and edge his boxers down just far enough for him to spring free, thick and rigid.

You run a finger up the shaft, watch it jump, the tip already leaking. Your hand covers the head with the lightest touch and you stroke downward, palm and fingers ghosting over his flesh. You give him a little squeeze, feel his thigh tense under your other hand, and release him. Eyes locked with his, you gather the liquid dribbling from the tip of his cock, pop your finger in your mouth, and suck until your cheeks hollow.

Ok, so you’re getting a little payback.

His eyes roll back and he makes a high-pitched noise of shock when you take him in your mouth. You can’t take him all the way – you can barely get your hand around him – but he’s not complaining. Those are definitely not sounds of complaint. You work him slowly, thoroughly, until he’s writhing and moaning and begging. One hand rests on the back of your head, not pushing, clenching and releasing in time to your motions. The other is on the steering wheel like he’s trying to brace himself, to give himself an outlet as you stoke his flames higher and higher.

“Tell me when you’re close,” you say, and take the sound he makes for assent as you return to your task. His scent is heavier now, heady and exhilarating, and the renewed slickness between your thighs answers with its own musk. If you had a hand free . . . but one is wrapped tightly around him, working him faster now, and the other is sliding between his legs to cup his balls . . .

He gives a strangled cry that sounds like “close!” and his hand tightens in your hair. You slide down on him, taking him as deep as you can, rolling his balls in your hand – you thrill at the feel of them pulsing – and he’s spilling into your mouth, spilling over, dripping down your chin as you greedily swallow as much as you can. You keep sucking him through his orgasm, drawing it out until his thighs are clenching beneath you and his gasps carry a hint of pain. With a loud pop, you pull off him and sit back, wiping him off your chin.

His eyes are wide, staring at you like he’s seen god herself. Wordlessly, he digs into the pocket of his jeans (somewhere around his knees, now) and gently cleans your face with his handkerchief, then leans against you, face buried in your neck. You stroke his back, murmuring soothing sounds until he’s still and calm in your arms, then help him set himself to rights.

The downside to car sex is the aftermath – right now, all you want is to cuddle up with him and go to sleep, and then go for round two ( _does the serum affect his refractory period_? you wonder, and then _did it give him super swimmers, too? Do we need special condoms_?), and then make breakfast with him and probably sleep some more and – but you’re getting ahead of yourself. None of those things can be easily accomplished in even a nice car. At least not by you.

Now that you’re both mostly presentable – Steve looks like someone absolutely wrecked him ( _I did that! It was me!_ ), and you’re probably no better, but you’re both fully clothed – there’s a tinge of awkwardness between you. Like, obviously he’s going to take you home and probably stay the night, but maybe he feels like it’d be too bold to just start the engine and get on down the road? Would it be equally presumptuous to ask him to? ‘Hey, I’m still super horny so let’s get to getting?’

You shake your head, and he glances at you. “Cold?” He looks around for the blanket, crumpled up in the floorboard. You probably should have put it on the seat before you got down to business.

“No, just.” You shrug and tentatively reach for his hand. He immediately takes yours, twines your fingers with his.

“Ready to go home?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly feeling shy. “Will you . . . will you stay with me?”

He smiles and kisses your palm. “I’d love to.” He looks down and back up, eyes dark and dancing. “There are a few more things I want to try . . .”

You smirk and move closer to him, lips brushing his ear. “Are you saying you want to f–“

He takes your chin in his hand and turns you to face him. “ _Language_ , doll. I’m going to take you home, lay you down; I’m going to kiss every inch of your body; I’m going to taste you until you come undone, and then I’m going to make love to you until you can’t think of anything but me.” You’re trembling, eyes wide, _so fucking wet again_. “Then I’m going to do it again, and again.” He places a gentle kiss on your lips and releases you, watching you settle back, fastening your seatbelt for you. His hand brushes your cheek oh-so-gently; you feel his breath tickle your ear.

“And _then_ I’m going to fuck you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomas Barford & Nina Kinert – November Skies
> 
> I can not only see November Skies  
> I see you everywhere, everywhere  
> Lived a life time in the hunger  
> Lived too long for all the fear  
> Never did I hear the thunder  
> Right outside of here, in the rain  
> And it was welcome when I knew it  
> What I wanted was in you  
> Waited long to see the light in the crack


	13. Remember November, remember November/ Away in the dark you made me feel something/ And gave me a reason to keep trying

The moon is higher, the air a little colder. There will be frost on the ground tomorrow, but right now it’s pretty close to perfect. Steve wants to tuck the blanket around you both and stay in your little bubble, but you’ve extended an invitation he’s thought about since the first time he saw you bite your lip.

Which was, if he’s being honest, the first time he saw you at all.

The second time he saw you, the first time you spoke, his thoughts had skittered down a different path, a path strewn with conversations, long walks and wildflowers wrapped in handkerchiefs and soft hands tucked into his. A gentle path not built for heavy boots and uniforms and vibranium shields. He’d been selfish to take it anyway, to believe that it could be a path for Steve Rogers. By rights, it should have blown up in his face and _stayed_ blown, his heart in pieces at your feet.

But Steve’s life has been made of second chances, and if he’s been duly grateful for every one of them, he’s _wildly_ grateful for this one.

The world will not stay calm. There will be new enemies to fight, and he will go out into the world of bullets and blood and terror, and then _he will come home_. He will come home to you, he knows, he believes it with all the stubbornness in his soul.

He will wake next to you in the morning and feel your breath on his shoulder; he will bring you coffee when he gets back from his run; he will peel apples and watch your hands press the crust into the pie pan; he will dance with you at sunset. He will. He _can_ , now.

The flash from a headlight hits his eyes and Steve shakes himself back to the present. He’ll have to get you home safely first, and he’s driven half the distance already without realizing it. You’re quiet in the passenger seat, looking out the window with a Mona Lisa smile on your face. You turn under the weight of his gaze, brush your fingers over his hand on the gearshift.

“Drive faster?” you say, that smile in your voice.

“Asking me to break the law, doll?” But he does press his foot down just a little harder, more to see you smile than for actual speed. He’d prefer to have himself under better control before he gets you home; the way he feels right now you might not make it to a bed, and he made a promise.

He’s a little shocked at himself, at his boldness and because he’d said it to you, a _lady_. Every boy in Brooklyn had it pounded into them that you don’t talk like that in front of ladies. Other men, sure, and in the army his catalog of vulgarities had expanded in both size and creativity, but it still gave him hives to think about using any of it in front of a woman. Seeing your reaction, though, he thinks that careful and judicious use might have some benefits for you both.

Your porch light is on, spilling its golden glow across the wooden planks and down the steps as Steve circles the car to reach your door. You stand, hand in his, and he goes dizzy with your nearness, your scent, your touch. He kisses you there with the car door still open, pulling you close, pressing himself desperately against you until you gasp and turn your head with a shaky little laugh.

“Neighbors,” you whisper, and if Steve can’t make himself care what they think he _does_ care what you think, and he made a promise.

He can’t take his hands off you, though. He’s got you by the hips, grazing the back of your neck with his teeth while you fumble with the keys. His laugh at your disgruntled noise when you drop them turns into a groan when you bend to pick them up, brushing your generous backside against him, and he brazenly slides a hand under your skirt and up your thigh.

“You’re gonna get us both into trouble, mister,” you mutter, hands shaking as you aim the key again.

“Not if you get the door unlocked in time,” he growls, and thank god you do. He shoves the door open with his free hand and bundles you inside, throwing the lock without looking. You squeal as he pulls you against him, lifts and presses you against the door so he can kiss you the way he’s wanted to for all those horrendously long minutes since he started the car.

He’s aware that’s ridiculous. He can’t bring himself to care right now, with his hands full of you, feeling the wild thundering of your heart and the heat spreading across your skin, knowing that _he_ did that.

When he’s had his momentary fill. Steve lowers you to the ground and catches your arm as you sway. Your eyes look as dazed as he feels, and he holds you carefully, soothingly, hands running up and down your back as you lean against him.

You mutter something against his chest, and he kisses your head and looks down. “What was that?”

“I think I’m addicted to you,” you say, voice hazy, and Steve’s heart grows three sizes even as he laughs.

“It’s the serum,” he says, but you wrap your arms around his waist and shake your head.

“’S you. I couldn’t have dreamed someone like you.”

_Oh. Oh no. Man up, solider; can’t cry just ‘cause a girl loves you._ Except that he might already be crying, and anyway, there are exceptions: when your team wins the Series, at the Grand Canyon and such, and probably when your girl says she loves you is one of those exceptions, especially when she says it real sweet. Sergeant Duffy might disagree, but Steve would lay money that Duffy never held anyone so fine as you.

“I dreamed a lot, too,” he says, voice thick. “When I was a kid, I dreamed about finding a girl, the one for me. I didn’t want all of the girls, like Bucky had. Just one.” He tilts your face up, and if there are tears in his eyes, you won’t be able to see them through your own. “You’re more than anything I dreamed.”

“ _Steve._ ” You stand tiptoe, pull him down to you for a kiss that leaves him moaning into your mouth. Your pupils are blown; you look kiss-drunk, and Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

_I did that_ , he thinks. _I made her look like that. I make her laugh. I make her happy. I made her come._

He’s a little dizzy as you take his hand and lead him toward the stairs. It’s like the drive home; suddenly he’s standing in your bedroom and isn’t sure how he got there. His knees are weak. He can only stare at you, at your hands in his.

You’re smiling at him, but it’s a small, uncertain thing. Has he paused too long, made you doubt again? Or are you unsure about taking the next step? As much as he wants you, he can be patient until you’re ready.

“We don’t have to do anything else, doll,” he says, kissing your fingertips. “Nothin’ at all; just let me stay with you.”

Your eyes soften. “I think you promised to make me come undone,” you remind me, a devilish smirk on your lips. “Among other things.”

“We have” _the rest of our lives_ “plenty of time to make that happen. I don’t want to rush you.”

“You aren’t,” you assure him. “Unless . . . are _you_ ready? We don’t have to –“ He sweeps you up in his arms and deposits you on the bed. “Okay,” you laugh, “I guess that answers that.”

“I guess it does,” he says, looking down at you. He could look at you forever, tumbled onto the blanket, eyes wide and hair mussed, about to be . . . well, _ravished_ is an old-fashioned word, and you’d probably hoot at him for saying it, but damn if that’s not what he intends to do.

He grabs your ankles, pulls you to the edge of the bed, you skirt riding up to expose your thighs and almost, _almost_ , the center of you. You’re still laughing, a little breathless now, as Steve kneels between your dangling legs. He gives you a wicked smile of his own as he slips your shoes off and kisses your ankles, first one, then the other.

“What are you doing down there?” you ask, giggling as he nuzzles at your calf.

“I made a promise,” he says, reveling in the softness of your skin under his lips.

“Yeah, but –“ your giggle turns to a squeal when he nips at the crease of your knee. Your thighs tighten, and a sudden musk fills his senses “Jesus, Steve.”

“There someplace you’d rather I be?” he asks, resting his chin on your knee.

Eyes wide, you shake your head. “No. No, there’s good. That’s . . . _oh._ ” Steve returns to his task, kneading your soft thighs with his hands, nibbling his way north. At the hem of your dress, he pauses, pondering. There’s some thrill in the idea of getting up under your skirt, making you scream with all your clothes on . . . but he’s already done that tonight and he want to just see everything. See all of you, drink you in, feel your bare skin beneath his hands, watch you writhe.

“Sit up, doll.” You’re watching him, half-curious, half-impatient, but you obey immediately. He’s on his knees before you like a knight before his queen, like a penitent before his god, and when you run your fingers through his hair he feels sanctified. He rests his forehead against yours, gazing into your eyes until it’s almost too much – too near, too potent – and he has to close his eyes before he breaks apart. He pulls down the zipper of your dress, feeling his way, spreading his hands across the bare skin of your back as your dress falls open to him, feeling your heart race, your breath catch, feeling you quiver in his arms, feeling _powerful_ , more powerful than he’s ever felt in battle, a primal power, a power known only to those who’ve held a woman in her pleasure and known they were the cause.

_You gotta stop thinking like that, pal, or you’re not gonna live to see that dress on the floor._

He guides you to your feet, slips the dress down your hips. Your eyes shutter; you look away, look down, and he presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to all the flesh he can reach. He fills his hands with your hips, rests his cheek against the curve of your stomach, breathes in the scent of you and breathes out worship until you clutch at his shoulders, knees trembling. You can barely manage to unhook your bra; Steve has to help you, and his mouth goes dry as he draws it down your arms. He mentally slaps himself – he’s not a virgin, he’s seen a woman’s naked bosom before, even _before_ before, back when you could get arrested for watching a blue movie – but there’s something about seeing a woman get undressed _for him_ , just for him, that makes him feel deeply unworthy every time. Like he needs to earn this gift.

His fingers hook into the waist of your panties and tug – god, he wants to go slow, wants to savor the moment you’re bared to him, wants to draw out your pleasure until he’s aching with need, but they’re not half down your thighs before his mouth is pressed to you, arms tightening around your hips to hold you still as he finds the seam of you, _dripping_ on his tongue.

Your back bows; your hands tighten in his hair. He parts your legs and guides you to drape a knee over his shoulder – “I’ve got you,” he assures when you make a noise of protest – and watches you unfurl for him, glistening for him, gasping for him. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, fingernails scoring his skin, a delicious pain that drives him deeper into your core. He slides a hand between your legs, one long finger delving inside you to that place that made you scream; his tongue and lips play along your nub until the combination has you nearly squirming out of his grasp, sobbing his name. Your liquid gushes over his hand, over his tongue – he shoves you onto the bed, holds you down with one steel arm and keeps going until you come again, until your voice is hoarse and you're begging "please, no more, I can't - _Steve_ " and you try to push him away with weak little fluttering hands. Some ferocious voice inside tells him he can do this all day, he can bring you again, and again, _I made a promise_ and again until your body only knows his, until your soul delivers itself up to him.

It’s a powerful voice: it’s kept him alive, guided him here, to this life, to _you_ , but it’s also gotten him beaten and broken and nearly killed; it’s led him to beat and break and kill, and he cannot let it rule him. Not here with you.

So he rests his head against your thigh, lets you rut languidly against his hand as the aftershocks burst inside you. He watches your chest rise and fall, your eyes slowly open, and thinks he could spend every one of his lives at your feet.

Your fingers gently card through his hair; your breath evens. Your voice is husky and lethargic. “Promise kept, I think.”

“Not quite,” he murmurs, kissing your mound, your stomach, your breasts as he makes his way onto the bed and draws you into his arms. “I promised to make love to you. A few times.”

“Does that not count or . . .?”

“Yes? But.” He’s stammering, and it’s ridiculous after what he just did, but he’s never been good with words. “I mean yes, it was, but there’s other . . . ways . . .” he trails off, red-faced.

“Ohhh,” your voice is teasing now. Your hand slides up his thigh. “You mean, like _this_?” He arches up off the bed when you grip him; he’s already painfully hard, and even though you’d worked him over so good barely an hour before, he could probably finish in his pants now without much effort.

“That,” he breathes. “If . . . if you want. We don’t –“ you silence him with a kiss, and _thank god_ , because that’s not going away on its own. He’d take himself off to the bathroom and handle it if you couldn’t, but he’s almost out of his mind with the need to be inside you.

“I want,” you whisper against his mouth. “But maybe give me a minute?” Your hand traces along his chest, and you pop up suddenly. “You’re still dressed,” you say accusingly. “You have your _shoes_ on.”

Laughing, Steve kicks off his shoes and hears them thump onto the floor, and tries to draw you back down onto his chest. “Had more important things to think about,” he says.

“Yeah?” You play with the collar of his shirt, slip your hand inside to trace the fading mark you gave him. “I wonder what that could be?”

He grabs your hand, brings it to his lips. “You keep teasin’ me, sweetheart, you’re not gonna get that minute.”

“Minute’s up,” you whisper. You trace his lips with your fingertips, lay your own lips against his ear. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes?” God, he hasn’t squeaked like that since puberty. You have the grace not to laugh. Sitting up, your fingers trailing down the buttons of his shirt, a little smile playing around the corners of your mouth, you look entirely unselfconscious and utterly magnificent. He’ll close his eyes another time, focus on the soft brush of your fingertips on his skin; tonight he wants to drink in the way you look, and the way you look at him.

Your hair brushes his face as you lean over him, sprinkling kisses across his collarbone as your fingers carefully open his buttons. Your hand slides beneath his undershirt, fingernails scratching lightly against his skin, and his muscles tense when your breath ghosts across his stomach. You nuzzle at his abdomen, at the light dusting of hair that disappears into the – _oh god,_ he thinks, trying to hold himself still as you follow that trail. You grin up at him as you slowly unzip his jeans, and it’s so much like before that he almost wants you to do it, take him in your mouth here where he can see you, watch your lips stretch around him, watch you swallow him down again.

But he’s got other plans, so “No, doll, nope, stop that –“ he bats your hands away as you giggle, then stands in one fluid motion and hurriedly shucks off his clothes before you can have your wicked way with him. He crawls back onto the bed and – look, he knows he’s handsome; he’s been told, women _and_ men have let him know since that first war bonds tour, but you fell in love with the skinny guy with bony shoulders and knobbly knees, and while he can’t imagine you’d change him back now, there’s a moment, just an instant . . .

Then you’re holding his face in your hands, pulling him down for a kiss, whispering “You’re so beautiful, Steve. I love you so much.” You pull back, lay your hand against his heart. “I love everything you are.”

“Everything?” he teases, running his hands down your back. He grips your bottom and pulls you against him, thrilling at the sharp breath you take.

“I love all of you,” you say softly, and smile so brightly, so happily that he can’t help but grin back. “I love every version of you.”

He’s going to play that in his head, over and over, for the rest of his life. If a tattoo would take, he’d wear it on his skin.

Then you grind against him and nip at his lower lip. “I want you,” and that’s not why he’s here, but . . . yeah, that’s why he’s up here right now and why he’s definitely _up_ right now. “Do you have . . .?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. He didn’t want to presume, but he’s been carrying some for weeks now. “In my bag.”

“The bag in your car?”

“The . . . shit. Sorry!” He rolls over, gearing up for a sprint, but you pull him back down, laughing.

“I have some. Unless you need, like, special ones?” You bite your lip and look him up and down. “Like, ‘cause. Super soldier?”

It takes him a minute to understand, then he buries his face in your neck and just cracks up. You swat at him half-heartedly. “It’s not that funny.”

“Is,” he chokes out, shoulders shaking. “If they’d managed that, Philiips’d had me making his army for him.”

You huff and shove at his chest, but he settles on top of you, weight on his forearms, and pecks at your lips. “Love you,” he whispers – “Sweetheart, let me love you.”

His senses are full of you. Your scent – clean skin and musk and a hint of perfume – envelopes him; your breathy little moans like music fill his ears. Your mouth is sweet and yielding under his, accepting his worshipful kisses as your due. His hands are full of you, breasts and thighs and ass; he lifts you against him and rocks your bodies together, thrilling at each new sound, each tremble. And the sight of you when you’re ready for him, the fierce look in your eyes when he covers you, cradled between your thighs, the way they widen as you stretch around him.

“Slow,” you sigh, like he wouldn’t, like he won’t savor these first moments of existing in your body, surrounded by you. He wants to hold your eyes with his, to see you take him in, but it’s so much, it’s too much, and _Camilli 34, Redwick 18, Reiser 14, oh god, Walker 8, no, 9, forgot that game with_ – he hears you gasp, feels your legs tighten around his hips, then you buck against him, take him deep, and – “ _fuck,_ ” he breathes, “sorry – _jesus,_ baby, you gotta – I can’t – “

_Fucking Walker 9, Riggs 5, I’m gonna die here and it’s worth it._

He slides an arm beneath you, lifts you up to meet his thrusts, his pelvis slotting against yours, against your mound; he knows he’s got it right when you whimper his name and arch against him. His hips snap _slow, slow,_ he tells himself, but your hands are in his hair, your lips against his ear, begging – “deeper, Stevie, more, please, I need you, _Steve_ ” – and he won’t last much longer. As soon as he knows – as soon as –

Your hips jerk, thighs quivering – you tighten around him and it’s even hotter now, wetter – ripples clench his cock as you sob out your release, and molten pleasure shoots down his spine as he follows you, catching himself on one arm, face buried in your hair.

He can feel your heart beating like thunder, or maybe it’s his, or maybe it’s both of yours, together. He ought to get off you, let you breathe, but he just . . . doesn’t want to, yet. Your fingernails scratch lightly down his back, and he shivers.

“Is this . . . is this okay? Do you need me to move?” _Was I okay? Can I stay here forever?_

You turn your head, kiss the side of his face. “Stay with me, please.” You pull him close, let him ease down and rest his head on your breast. “I came so hard I almost blacked out,” you say softly.

His mouth curves and yep, he’s definitely blushing. “Oh. Good, that’s . . . good,” he mumbles to your bosom. He feels you laugh as you pet his hair. “It was. For me, I mean. Too. I mean I –”

“You enjoyed keeping your promise?” He can hear a wicked glint in your tone.

“Haven’t kept it yet.” He props himself up, caging you in his arms. “I promised again, and again.”

“Can again wait until morning?” you ask, and he chuckles, brushing his nose against yours and kissing you gently, the lightest caress of lips, before rolling out of bed. He handles the condom, cleans himself and then you, and crawls back to your side to hold you close again.

There will be no dreams tonight, he knows, because he’s holding them all in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julianna Hatfield – Remember November
> 
> Remember November, remember November/  
> Away in the dark you made me feel something/  
> And gave me a reason to keep trying


	14. Epilogue: You are the stars/ Looking down on the world from afar/ You will shine through the night/ An eternal beacon of light

There’s no occasion for him to give you a gift. The holidays have passed and the sky is spitting down sleet and there aren’t even colorful lights to make it look cheerier. Maybe that’s why he showed up for your date with a brightly-wrapped rectangle and his sweetest smile.

It’s clearly a framed piece of art. You hope, _you hope_ , it’s one of Steve’s drawings. You’d love to hang one of his pieces on your wall. Maybe with a spotlight. Definitely with a little gallery tag.

You gleefully tear off the wrapping paper and flip it over.

“Steve.”

“Yep?” He’s grinning at his feet, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Steven Grant Rogers.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“She has my face.”

“Yours is nicer than the original.” He looks up at you, eyes dancing, and you can’t help but grin back.

“So you’re saying I have a lantern of evil in my pants.”

“Could be a lantern of justice.” He gives you a _look_. “I’d have to check.”

You pat his cheek. “You have to help me hang this, first.”

There’s a hint of red on his cheeks and ears, and his eyes turn bashful. “So you – you do like it, then?”

“It’s perfect.”

Later, after you’ve properly thanked him, you print out a cardstock exhibition label to place below it:

Steven G. Rogers (b. 1918)

 _Homage to Hamilton’s Joan of Arc and the Furies, with original additions_ , 2019

Acrylic on canvas

[ Hamilton, Joan of Arc and the Furies](http://emuseum.vassar.edu/media/view/Objects/4706/2033?t:state:flow=ba8290dc-3c32-4050-9946-ed94a772ff23)  
[Fuseli, The Nightmare](http://emuseum.vassar.edu/media/view/Objects/4691/18426?t:state:flow=94f5eab5-6100-451a-a33e-d1fcc2b3a246)  
[ Smith, The Weird Sisters](http://emuseum.vassar.edu/media/view/Objects/5252/2080?t:state:flow=29c159df-e785-477f-b8d8-f12b450e3e2f)  
[Runciman, Cormar Attacking a Spirit of the Water](http://emuseum.vassar.edu/media/view/Objects/10171/2273?t:state:flow=1b76b5cd-6d86-4910-b8b7-bc69b0bf0938)

[Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7dGXvoyIx1NKVUV7T1OCZC?si=F4hfCG1LS8C1MlYjTEnDaw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Getaway Plan – February
> 
> You are the stars/  
> Looking down on the world from afar/  
> You will shine through the night/  
> An eternal beacon of light


End file.
